


Herald The Damned

by EclipseWing



Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angels, BAMF everyone at some point, Blood, Crossover, Demons, F/M, Gen, Ghosts, Gore, Hell, Horror, M/M, Minor Character Death, Original Character(s), Plotty, Post season 3a, Pre Season 3B, Scars, Season 9 Supernatural, Swearing, This is a long crossover with lots of pointlessly dramatic moments that make it epic, Torture, Transgender, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-15 03:35:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 45
Words: 189,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1289725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EclipseWing/pseuds/EclipseWing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott, Stiles and Allison are losing their mind from the recent sacrifice to the Nemeton, but there are worse things to worry about with strangers in town and bodies beginning to pile up from suspicious causes.</p><p>Meanwhile Sam and Dean chase angels and demons around the country, before eventually realising that everything is circling around Beacon Hills, California.</p><p>[In which Beacon Hills is an actual Hell Gate, and while the Pack begin to feel the effects, the demons take advantage of the open door.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blood Moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thepartwhereyourun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepartwhereyourun/gifts).



> This is based off an idea my friend had, and we've worked it through together. It has original characters in it, but mostly for the plot and otherwise it's weighted fairly equally between the TW guys and the SPN brothers. She pretty much fed me the first part TW plot while I work with the SPN side of things. I then took over it all and just went with it and this monster was spat out.
> 
> Friends Tumblr: http://thepartwhereyourun.tumblr.com/  
> My Tumblr: http://shadow-of-the-eclipse.tumblr.com/
> 
> It goes AU before S3b, and runs alongside the last part of SPN from the end of s09e13 The Purge and stops sometimes before they kill Abaddon, although events in the episodes won't be written in explicitly, they might be mentioned or referenced, or they'll be an assumed time gap when they happen.  
> Otherwise enjoy, and comments are always welcome!

It is dark at the crossroads.

His legs swing on the bench, a steady, slow rock back and forth.

Back and forth.

He stares sightlessly at the cheap gravel dirt road, not seeing the sign pointing four directions shake slightly in the breeze. His bare arms shiver with goose bumps, but he doesn’t appear to notice.

He blinks, lashes long and pretty. Too pretty. His hands fumble over each other uncomfortably, and he can hear his breath rasping in his throat.

Lights loom out of the dusk and he startles, and for a moment in the glare of the head lights his eyes shine brightly like yellow flares, and then with a quite rumple the car passes by, gravel crunching under the tyres.

His shoulders slump, and his breath rushes out in one large sigh. It catches though in a strangled sort of laugh, half-way to a sob and he chokes it down, one hand clawing valiantly at his eyes, pale blue blinking away salt.

On the bench besides him his phone buzzes, travelling centimetres across the surface with every vibration. It threatens to fall off the edge when it stops, screen going dark.

“Hey Lukey-boy!” a cheerful voice sounds fuzzy through the tiny speakers. “You showing your face tonight? I wanna’ see you there, ya’ hear me?” A beep and silence, and he’s left alone again.

His fingers twitch to answer, but he curls his hands into fists, nails digging into his palms. His shoulders are trembling, and his breathing erratic and it takes him several seconds longer than it should to realise that his eyes are damp again.

He swipes a hand over them angrily. He’s not weak. He’s not a freaking girl either, and he stands, pacing along the bench.

The phone vibrates again, and he pauses, staring with disinterest at the bus timetable.

“Luke? We’re going to see you tonight, right? And that’s not a question, we’re going to see you there. You’re not going to let that little… mishap with the surgery get you down, got it?”

Another voice chimes in cheerfully. “Love ya’ Luke!”

“Lexi!” the first voice hisses, and there’s the sound of mad scrambling and whispered insults and the voicemail ends.

He’s smiling despite of himself, and he pulls himself together, taking a long shaking breath.

His gaze strays towards the centre of the crossroads where the gravel is scattered, and then re-piled over some small object.

He tears his gaze away, stiff, cold fingers curling over the phone as he picks it up, lights flickering in the distance signalling the arrival of the bus home.

He leaves behind the crossroads as dim as they first appeared, but with the faint and fading scent of sulphur dying on the breeze.

***

“Where’ve you been?” she asks sharply as he arrives home, cold fingers struggling with the key in the lock when the door opens for him, revealing her disapproving face and worried eyes.

She steps aside as he moves in, and as he brushes against her she stiffens.

“What have you been up to? You’re freezing!” she chides, as he shuffles awkwardly for a moment in the entrance hall, and then makes for the stairs.

He passes pictures on the dresser, of a mother and father playing with a little girl on the beach, with his blonde hair and blue eyes but it’s not him. It’s not. The pictures change visibly. The father vanishes and the little girl with sparkling eyes becomes a cute boy with short spiky hair that looks like it was cut with kitchen scissors, muddy jeans and a lone woman, smiling sadly just out of shot.

“Lucy!” his mum calls as he bangs past, trailing dirt and dry leaves through the living room. “Lucy!”

Luke ignores her. It’s not his name, but it’s easier to ignore it than to argue. He pauses at the backdoor to kick off his shoes before stomping upstairs, shivering already abating as a waft of warm air from the radiator drifts towards him.

He grabs his headphone from his desk and turns the music up loudly, drowning out whatever his mum calls up to him. He boots up his laptop, plugging in his memory stick and loading up a piece of school work, a half-written essay that knowing his luck, is probably due in tomorrow.

It feels weird, sitting here doing something as trivial as homework.

Especially considering what he’s just done. What is going to happen to him… He shudders and his fingers fly across the keys, losing himself for a moment in the beat of his music and the mindlessness of the words.

A cold breeze passes across his back and he shivers. With a sigh he pulls the headphones off, listening to the curtains flap in the open window. It’s cold outside, late January and the air is bitter and almost holds the promise of snow if it wasn’t for the fact that British weather never turned out that nice, that simple.

When he turns around however there’s a shadow leaning besides the open window, a small lithe girl grinning cheekily at him. She’s about seventeen or eighteen, and when Luke notices her she waves at him, reflexively running her one hand over her short, pixie cut hair, choppy blonde locks illuminated by the streetlamp outside.

Luke jumps to his feet. “What the hell are you doing here?” he snarls. His face twists, morphing, and he snarls again, fangs bared. His eyes flash gold and he feels the hair grow on his forehead. It feels the same as ever, uncomfortable and prickly, but then it’s gone, and he’s settled and as calm as an adolescent werewolf can be.

The girl steps back in alarm, her own eyes gold. She almost falls out of the window, and Luke figures that she probably would have if not for a second head to pop up, shoving her sister back in.

“Clumsy Nate,” the little girl smirks, clambering in.

“Who the hell invited you Lexi?” ‘Nate’ hisses at the younger girl. The pair glare at each other and in profile they have the same high cheek bone, and small nose. Nate’s hair is short where her younger sister’s is still long and flowing.

“I can go where I wanna’!” Lexi sounds like a petulant twelve year old stereotype at that moment instead of the thirteen years old she actually is, “Stop telling me what to do Nate!”

The older sister rolls her eyes, turning back to where Luke lets his shift fade, as he sighs in frustration at the pair. The two sisters are the only daughters of the pack alpha, and born to being wolves in the same way that he totally wasn’t.

“Where the hell have you been?” Nate demands of him.

“What do you mean?” he asks, sitting and leaning back in his chair and eying them warily.

Lexi flops on his bed like a fish. “Well duh!” she makes a rude gesture at the calendar pinned to his wall, “It’s the full moon dummy!”

“And why do you want me there so badly?” he asks, detached and not meeting any of their gazes.

Nate rolls her shoulder, “Everyone’s there. And you’re going to be there too.”

He looks about to protest, and then reconsiders. Luke glances back at his laptop screen and then to Nate. “Is Jethro going to be there?” he asks.

She smiles smugly, but it’s Lexi who answers, “Yes!” she squeaks excitedly. “And if you’d looked at your phone dumbass, and stopped acting like our technology incompetent German teacher then you’d know that too!”

“I don’t speak German,” Luke snaps, but he slams his laptop closed. “Fine. I’ll be there.”

Nate rolls her eyes. Luke ignores her. He’s accustomed to her antics, and isn’t in the mood for them tonight.

“Awesome!” Lexi chirps.

“Seriously?” Luke blinks at her, “What’s with the annoying fly, Nate?” he asks his friend.

She shrugs at him while Lexi (or Alexa) glares. “Dad asked me to watch her. She’s stuck to my tail for the whole evening while he gets things set up.”

“Sounds fun,” Luke grits out, grabbing a coat and shoes.  “Look I’ll be right out. Now go jump out my window before I shove you out.”

“Aw,” Nate grins, “We love you too, Luke!”

He shoves her towards the window and makes for the door, not checking to see if he’s succeeded in pushing her out or not.

He kind of hopes he did.

***

The forest backs the town, on a small hill that rises up and then drops away to a river. The clearing is somewhere along the drop, and when it’s quiet in the summer you can hear the river running along the valley, peacefully trickling along its way. At the moment it runs full with rain water and melted ice, and it roars as it carves its way through the landscape.

The clearing is the usual location for pack meetings, and the trees around, huge old pines, are covered with scratching from many werewolf claws over the years. The place has long been written off as a cult camp, and so they get their peace, their sanctuary.

A huge bonfire is set up offset towards one side of the clearing. Around the rest logs are positioned to sit on, with blankets spread with food and drink. Luke spots an old man wrapped up in his cardigan, a scarf around his neck, slowly leafing through pages of his book. His eyes catch the light of the bonfire, flaring them gold.

Well… that would explain why he didn’t need reading glasses.

Mothers congregate on the blankets, with small children making big gestures at each other, smiles plastered across their faces. Nearby some more teenagers with low trousers and hoodies that fall off their shoulders are being told off for smoking, the cigarettes being thrown on the bonfire.

Luke hesitates as he approaches the clearing, but Nate catches his arm and drags him forwards. He sees her father eye him warily, and he ducks his head in respect to his alpha.

The pack is old. The alpha rules by blood and respect and sometimes even a little fear. For most of them, it runs in the family lines, and that’s where Luke is different.

He’s a bitten. He’s an outsider.

He’s the stupid kid who got himself mauled by a crazy alpha and now has to push on through his life as a werewolf.

“Oh no,” Nate sighs besides him, “Disaster in the making at three o’clock.”

Luke follows her gaze. He sees Jethro almost immediately. The lanky dark haired brunette has hair so dark it almost looks black and brown eyes he is currently blinking in a manner he probably thinks is romantic at a long legged gorgeous dark skinned girl who is clearly way out of Jethro’s league.

It doesn’t stop him trying, and Luke pauses with a grin to admire his friend’s valiant efforts at wooing her, while the girl turns away, disinterested, pulling a face at where her boyfriend lounges against a tree with a beer bottle in his hand.

“Who the fuck is this guy?” Luke sees her mouth, and moments later a fake smile is plastered on her face as Jethro shifts around into her field of vision.

“Gotta’ save him I guess,” Nate casts him a glance, probably feeling like she’s having a one sided conversation with herself, but Luke isn’t quite there with her. Not tonight.

Not after what he just did.

The three of them move towards Jethro, and Luke sees relief in the girl’s eyes as she spots them approaching, and she slips away with an excuse, patting Jethro on the back almost patronisingly.

Jethro gazes lovingly after her, and Luke feels the suspicious gazes from her boyfriend falling on both him and Jethro.

He’s never been the favourite, a bitten werewolf in a pack of purebloods, but even then he’s different from them, and they know it.

The alpha knows it too, which might explain why Luke keeps managing to piss him off. He tries not to, he swears, but nobody seems to believe him.

“Come on, moron,” Nate grabs Jethro’s ear, twisting it, and he winces in mock pain.

“What are you doing… Nate… Nate!” he squeaks.

She lets go, perfectly innocent, “Someone’s got to save you from yourself,” she shrugs.

“But did you see her?” he articulates every syllable. “That was some hot piece of…” he yelps when Nate hits him. “Stop it! Oww…”

“Maybe you should try writing her poetry,” Lexi shrugs.

He points a finger at her triumphantly, “That’s a great idea! Brilliant! I…  I can’t poetry…” he shakes his head in disbelief.

“Should have paid more attention in English.” Luke suggests, smirking.

“Psh,” Jethro waves one hand dismissively. “Waste of time. I…” his gaze focusses suddenly, sharply on Luke, “Luke!” he exclaims, joyful. “You came!”

“Yeah,” Luke offers up a weak smile, “Nate and Lexi dragged me here.”

“What the hell, dude! You weren’t answering your phone! Your mum said you were out!”

He just shrugs, and he can feel Nate’s frustration next to him. “Yeah, whatever,” she shrugs at Jethro, “Good luck getting him to talk. Come on Lex. Let’s go and see if Mum or Dad need help.”

“But I want to…”

“Now.”

Lexi trails obediently after her sister.

Luke examines the crushed grass under his shoes, trampled by many feet of those gathered in the clearing.

Jethro eyes him curiously, and in turn Luke is aware of others, staring openly at him and Jethro.

His friend is out of place here, even more so than he is.

Jethro’s not a wolf.

Not that it’s unusual, because the girl that he’d been chatting up earlier wasn’t a wolf either, even if her boyfriend was. The old man sitting in the corner is a wolf, but out of his two children who are somewhere in this clearing only one of them is a wolf.

Jethro isn’t a wolf. But he’s something.

As if to show this his brown eyes flash green as he tilts his head considering at Luke. “You okay?” he asks.

There is a slightly circle around them where nobody dares venture. After all… no one really wants to interact with Luke the freak and Jethro the anomaly. Luke’s always been different, and he’s long learned to accept that he’s in the wrong body, but Jethro, popular good looking, smart Jethro is still getting used to animosity from the weres. Lex and Nate trust him, but not even the weakest beta trusts the word of the alpha’s thirteen year old daughter or his rebellious teenage heir.

“I’m great,” Luke lies with a smile.

Jethro is staring at him, with that look in his eyes which tips Luke off that he’s trying his mind reading trick.

Luke’s thoughts drift back to the dark crossroads almost unwillingly, and his claws extend, digging into his thigh. The flash of pain distracts him, and he blinks, staring back at Jethro who is still silently trying to assess him.

He wishes that he knew what the hell Jethro was, but considering even Jethro himself doesn’t have a clue, courtesy of foster parents, it’s a losing battle. For now though, this will work just fine.

“Stop that!” Jethro grabs his hand, pulling it away from where his claws had buried into his thigh. “What the hell are you trying so badly to hide? It’s got you all turned sideways, man!”

“Stop that shit,” Luke shoves him away, but like a wounded puppy Jethro moves back, “Stop it!” he growls, snapping slightly. His claws dig into his thighs once more and Jethro hisses, annoyed. It’s hard enough for him to read werewolves as it is, due to their animal instincts and the call of the animal within them, but with Luke distracted by pain it’s going to be virtually impossible for him to get a reading on anything.

“Dude, you know we’re totally here for you,” he gestures, sounding totally heartfelt and Luke knows he means it. Jethro never says stuff like this if he doesn’t mean it.

“I’m fine,” he snaps, “No seriously… I don’t need anything. I… I’ve found someone who can help.”

He’s not even lying.

“You always do this!” Jethro throws his hands up in disbelief, “You lock people out! How the hell am I mean to help if I don’t know what goes on in that weird little brain of yours! You’ve gotta’ stop running away, let people…” and then he stops, and his gaze goes distant.

Luke takes a moment to realise that this mile-long stare has come out of nowhere. His friend shivers, and green veins run up Jethro’s neck, raising the skin slightly as they travel up his flushed skin and creeping along to his eyes where they disappear. It’s been a while since this has happened, but it’s not unusual for Jethro, the unknown supernatural monster.

“Dude are you okay?” he asks, because usually Jethro will snap out of it by now. If anything his gaze grows more distant, out of focus and Luke waves one hand in front of his friend’s face, startled when there is no reaction. “Jethro!” he growls.

Jethro is shivering now, but it’s not cold out, so close to the bonfire and in the mingling of bodies. His pupils are dilated and Luke leans closer. “Are you… are you scared?” Luke frowns. Jethro startles, focussing on Luke and blinking, shaking his head like a wet dog.

“It feels like someone just walked over my damn grave,” Jethro muttered, exchanging a puzzled, but wary glance at Luke. “You…” he stops, and then starts again, “What did you do? Luke, what did you do?”

Luke steps back, shaking his head and spotting Nate and Lexi walking back over to them, makes as if to move towards him. Jethro grabs his upper arm, stopping him, but Luke keeps his gaze straight forwards at where the girls are smiling and laughing.

That’s when the bonfire goes out. It flares suddenly, and then dies in a huge whoosh that billows out hot air at them, and all conversation and activities stop as several dozen pairs of glowing eyes snap to the smoking pile of timber. It’s like a blown candle, dying suddenly and un-expectantly and Luke watches the alpha step with a confused frown towards where smoke curls around the wood pile.

It twists through the air, curling and obscuring the bonfire. It hangs thick and heavy in the air, and Luke feels it catching in his throat. Next to him Jethro drops his arm like it’s a burning brand, stepping back, nostrils flaring.

The clearing is dim with the night and smoke, and even Luke’s wolf eyes can’t pierce the choking veil. Their voices are confused, a dim hush of whispers as a breeze rustles the trees, and a shape moves into view.

Luke’s skin crawls when he sees her, and he knows she isn’t human. She is beautiful, a woman with pale skin, like alabaster, carved out of marble.

The werewolves edge closer, warily forming a circle around the still warm bonfire. The woman’s feet are bare, and her dress is flowing and black that mingles with the smoke, spinning around until it’s hard to tell where the smoke begins and ends, blanketing her pale skin like a shroud.

Everything about her is beautiful. And everything about her is wrong. She cuts a sharp figure, from the cut of her dress to the crimson, painted smile on her lips. There’s a wail from one of the young children, and the mother hushes her child, gold eyes flashing and teeth bared into a snarl.

And her eyes…

Dear God her eyes…

Her eyes are pitch black, hollow and empty and like a void full of darkness and mirth.

“Who are you?!” the alpha snarls, stepping forwards, and he’s fully wolf, eyes red and fangs bared. “You’re not welcome here…” his voice drops. “Leave now.”

“Who… who _am_ I?” she laughs. Her voice is like ice, or the driving snow, but soft and dangerous, like poison drips off her every word. Her lips curl into a smile, but it’s not nice or pretty. For a moment she flutters her eye lashes, brushing off an invisible speck of dust from the back of one hand. As her gaze lowers, she blinks; between one blink and another, her eyes turn from pitch black to a normal, soft, gentle hazel.

It’s dangerous, and behind him, Luke is aware of Jethro shuddering, muttering and gnashing his teeth together.

“It’s wrong…” Luke can hear his friend whisper, “She’s wrong, she’s dark, sounds like darkness, utter blackness, no hope, no light, wrong, dark…” he keeps going, over and over and over again, like an endless loop, barely pausing for breath.

“I am Legion,” the woman tells the alpha mockingly, “For we are many.”

With a snarl the alpha steps forwards, but she is gone, smoke drifting past where she was. He spins around eyes wide.

The scent of sulphur hits Luke first, and then she steps out of nothing in front of him. Her form flickers slightly like a bad projection before solidifying right in front of him.

Luke freezes, all his movements ceasing. Nate stumbles away from him, towards the edge of the clearing, shoving Lexi and a shivering Jethro behind her. Her tiny form isn’t much protection, even if her eyes do flash gold. Where Jethro stands muttering his own eyes are dancing from his normal brown to a burning green and back again, like a laser show. He doesn’t even appear to be aware of where he is anymore.

Luke startles when she moves for him, reaching out and grabbing his chin. He is suddenly unable to move away as she steps forwards.

The rest of the pack snarl, because even if Luke’s the freak, he’s still one of their own, their pack, but their snarls turn to yelps of surprise when they can’t move. Their legs must feel like his, locked up and stuck in glue.

She leans in close, and he can smell her breath across his face, feel its warmth, but it’s cloying and stinks of rotten egg.

Her hands dig into his chin, tilting his head to one side as she considers him, her tongue clicking. “Have you changed you mind, little puppy?” her voice is bordering on sultry, despite the mocking nickname, yet it feels like shattered glass across his skin. “It’s not too late to change your mind,” she adds, but the corner of her lips curl.

The woman’s heart beat doesn’t change, but Luke knows she is lying. It’s too late.

Far, far too late.

“Who are you?!” Nate screams, over from where she can’t move, along with the rest of the pack.

The woman laughs, and it sounds like grating ice. She drops Luke’s chin, flicking her wrist at Nate and the girl drops to her knees, still speaking but no words come out.

“It’s been a while,” she says, turning away from Luke, “A long, long time since I’ve been topside, but now I am..?” shadows dance across her eyes, “Well… a girl has her hobbies!”

“What?” Luke snarls, and he feels his nails morph into claws, “You promised! You can’t just… threaten me, and then leave without holding up your end!” he find himself able to move and he takes an angry step after her and almost immediately finds that he made a mistake when a hand closes around his throat.

He coughs, clawing at her hand, and blinking, and then suddenly they’re in the centre of the bonfire and smoke, and her eyes are black again, but with the smoke reflected in them her gaze looks as if it is charred and blackened by hell fire.

“Insolent wretch,” she sneers, lips curling into an ugly scowl. “Watch your tone and be grateful, that I took the time to answer your pitiful plea.” Her head tilts to one side, eyes normal once more, “After all… not even a lowlife crossroads demon wanted to deal with the likes of you. Just be thankful…” and she’s got him pinned with one hand around his neck. She reaches out with her other hand, one nail tracing patterns along his collar bone. She looks up at him from under her lashes, the sneer dropping into a gentle smile. “Just be thankful that I see the benefits. Long term.”

He kicks out at her, and even though it hits she doesn’t move. It’s like a rock holding him. He feels the heat burning around him, and not for the first time he wishes he could burn, but he knows that he’d just heal too fast…

(He knows it’s not really alight, and it’s all in his mind, in the burnt smell and her brimstone eyes but he feels it all the same…)

Because now he knows he will burn for all eternity and he will never heal… it will be his penance.

“Stop acting like a child,” she hisses, “You should learn your place, mutt.”

His feet find purchase on the ground and it’s just as well, because her grip around his neck relaxes for an instant, slipping instead to his collar and her long fingers tighten, dragging him forwards.

“After all.” She whispers, “Every deal needs to be sealed with a kiss.” And he snarls, but it’s useless, futile as she pressed her lips to his.

She tastes like sulphur and dead rotting meat and he wants to be sick, to draw back, but she doesn’t let him. His hands press against her and eventually she relents, stepping away from him with a leer. Her hand uncoils from his collar, stepping back suddenly so that his balance is gone. He flails, dropping to the ground like a broken puppet, heaving for breath.

The demon turns away, brushing her hands together as if she had touched something disgusting. She rolls her neck, feeling the pulse of a living body for the first time in centuries and a grin finds its way onto her face.

So many new toys to play with, she muses, examining the snarling pack.

This is going to be so, much, fun.

With a snarl the wolves snap off her power as it weakens, but she doesn’t worry. She lets them throw themselves at her. The demon’s gaze flicks to one side and the first hapless beta with raging blue eyes is tossed aside with a howl.

The next one follows, and then another snarling yellow-eyed beta, and she grins as his body flies through the thick pine branches of the forest. His snarling ends in a sharp yelp as he crashes into a broken branch. His body goes limp as he hands suspended there, a wooden stake piercing his heart. Blood pours from his throat, and she wonders whether he’ll yet claw his way back from that.

“Werewolves are surprisingly, almost annoyingly resilient,” she steps lightly off the bonfire, right hand clenching into a fist. A beta who had made an abortive move towards her, claws and fangs visible, drops choking and clutching his throat, sucking at the air like a drowning man, but finding none. He claws at his throat, his own nails tearing through the flesh, mouth opening and closing like a beached fish gasping for breath.

She tosses two more back with barely a thought, relaxing slightly as her eyes slide back to black. Around the edge of the clearing a few try to flee, but they encounter smooth walls, like an invisible force field, trapping them here.

She doesn’t want to waste her toys.

A wolf makes a swipe at her ribs, but the beta female’s hand passes through the body like water, and smoke shimmers as if the demon isn’t even there. The werewolf freezes, alarmed, and the demon shoves her gently aside, her fingers trailing for too long on the open neck.

The girl doubles over, vomiting, retching and crying as her insides try to claw their way up her throat. Behind her another person, this time not a wolf, just an ordinary human drops as well, screaming and thrashing but no sound emerges.

“I can suffocate you, choke you, stab you and yet you still come crawling back, tails between your legs,” the demon sounds almost wonderstruck as her left hand curls up. “It’s brilliant,” she breathes, looking around. Her fingers stretch, and then squeeze into a fist. As she does a nearby wolf howls, the moon above him whole and full as cuts mangle his body, healing almost instantly before more take their place.

He falls to his knees, as if in a twisted mockery of worship and again and again his arteries cry blood, like a hundred claws or knives stabbing into him. His hands clench into fists, not even noticing his own claws curling around into his palms.

“Didn’t they teach you anything?” she asks, mockingly as she crouches down next to the werewolf. Taking advantage of her turned back an older wolf lunges for her spine, but before he gets within a metre of her he doubles over, screaming. Fire eats its way out of his belly, and flares up, and his skin wrinkles and blackens.

From the inside out the fire consumes him, orange burning inside him as the outside chars and burns, growing darker and darker and crumbling. His fingers fall from their joints and his eyes which had been squeezed shut fly open, but they are hollow. The blood that leaks from them like tears dries instantly, evaporating into a red mist as his body collapses into smouldering hot ashes.

The demon glances casually over her shoulder, and then shrugs, turning back to the bloodied wolf in front of her. “Tonight… well… some call it a snow moon. It really depends on the year, but another popular name is the hunger moon.” One finger trails seductively down his chest towards his groin. “And others…” her hand stops, and then moves upwards before she shoves it forwards, digging in under his chest bone, and he coughs, blood dribbling out of his mouth and bubbling down his chin. “Others call it a blood moon,” and with a crack she pulls back, ripping out his still beating heart. His body falls away and she holds it in front of her, considering. With her other hand she dabs at it, licking the finger. “Hm,” she ponders it, “Tastes like dog.” And then she stands, tossing the heart aside.

She turns around, finding herself face to face with the alpha. Behind her smoke still drifts down from the bonfire where her new pet’s still form lies slumped. Nate is still standing defensively in front of Lexi and Jethro, the latter still shuddering and mumbling, not really there.

The alpha isn’t as young as he used to be, but he’s just as powerful, and his eyes flash threateningly as he takes his stand in front of his daughters. “You monster!” the alpha snarls, his eyes red. Nate is silently sobbing, and behind her Lexi whimpers. Other wolves circle the demon, teeth bared in fear and anger. Around them the humans scream, scrabbling at the invisible dome around the clearing, and a child wails in despair.

The black-eyed woman loves that, the scent of fear in the air. For a moment she revels in it, even as she smiles charmingly at the alpha.

“You going to begrudge a girl some down time?” she asks, pursing her lips. “And here I was having so much fun!” she shakes her head in disappointment.

Luke wakes behind her on the still warm bonfire with a dry sob. He sits up, hands scrambling through the ashes and he tries to move.

He stands, his hands pressed against the air. It feels like glass, thick and he can’t pass beyond it. His gaze falls beyond to the dead bodies, to the demon, to the terrified masses in the clearing and the woman who holds them trapped, like toys for her pleasure to be used and then thrown away.

“You monster!” Nate screams, and Luke tries to breathe, tries to hold onto rising panic as the woman paces towards his friend.

With a snarl the alpha leaps forwards and the woman reaches out, and the wolf freezes, hanging in mid-air as if caught in an invisible web.

“Dad!” Nate shoves Lexi towards the edge of the trees, towards a still babbling Jethro. The blonde only makes it a few steps forwards before the woman’s eyes turn to her, and the black has seeped out leaving an almost normal brown, but it’s equally cruel, if not worse because she could be a normal human, if not for the blood on her hands and the brimstone clinging to her soul.

“Going to be the hero are you?” the demon says, “I don’t think so sweetheart.” And she steps sharply towards where Nate’s dad is still suspended in the air, hand curling until her fingers are almost like claws.

She digs them in, and then rips back. She doesn’t pull out the heart this time, she just reaches in again and punches through the skin and bones. She tears straight through, ripping a hole through the wolf and the alpha’s red eyes roll up as the telekinetic hold on him drops, and his body, a bloody mess, drops broken to the ground, like a puppet with its strings cut.

“No!” Nate screams, and Luke is sobbing, heaving breaths, his head shaking because he hadn’t intended for this… he hadn’t wanted for Nate to be stuck there, forced to watch her dad die right in front of her.

The demon turns to the next wolf, ripping the snarling jaws from the head. Blood stains her skin, the pure snow white smeared bloody with the thick viscous liquid that dries quickly, caking into a brown colour that looks almost like rust.

“Run!” Luke calls, “Please… just run… Nate, run!”

The demon looks with sick pity at where her little toy is trapped. “You hear that?” she turns to Nate, pacing forwards, picking her way over the body on the ground as if it’s a red carpet rolled out just for her. “He wants you to run. Little mutt wants his bitch to run away with her tail between her legs.”

She laughs, stopping in front of where Nate stands frozen, and her long pianist fingers reach out, trailing through Nate’s hair as if brushing aside the strands.

Then the grip grows cruel, twisting and pulling and digging in until Nate cries out in pain. “Where you gonna’ run to?” the demon whispers in one ear, forcing Nate’s head to turn, surveying the wreckage, the still trapped wolves and the already dead and dying.

With a snarl, Nate’s mother darts towards them from the side, towards her daughter and the demon. The woman drops Nate to the side turning to snap the werewolf’s neck mid-leap, the body being thrown aside out of the way without a thought.

Nate falls in the dirt, and there is something wet beneath her. She pushes herself up, spotting her hands in the glow of the moon, and they are red and sticky. She sucks in a breath, looking away, but then all she can see is the demon, smiling sickly sweet as she licks away a trail of blood along a young boy’s neck. He can’t be older than five, and he stares up at her with wide eyes, not fully understanding everything, but at the same time having the horrible knowledge that something was really, really wrong.

“So pretty,” she whispers to the boy, tongue trailing along his ear.

He flinches away, whimpering like a puppy, “I want my mummy,” he tries to push her away but her grip tightens, and her soft gaze grows malicious and the one hand thumbing the boy’s cheek digs in, sinking in under the eyes and pushing down.

Nate gasps, shoving herself backwards along the grass, her hands bloody, and blood leaking from the child’s eyes as the demon rips her thumbs into the sockets, ignoring his wailing sob and continuing to dig in and dig in. Then with a triumphant laugh she rips her hands out, tearing out the eyes with unnatural strength. The child’s wail cuts off.

For a moment she sees the child standing there, ugly red holes where his eyes should be, and she screams.

Behind her Jethro lurches and snaps out of his daze with a start. Next to him Lexi slips aside, curled up into a ball and trying not to listen to the cries. Now she startles as Jethro moves away from her, her eyes tightly closed and hands over her ears as if it might block out the screams.

“Leave her alone!” Jethro staggers towards where Nate thrashes in the ground, trying to get the blood off her hands. It sticks to her skin, hot and heavy and it stinks. It’s like rust and copper but even that can’t hide the fact it is blood, and her hands are covered in blood… She wipes it with her right hand, but that only succeeds in smearing more all over her.

She tries to breath but all she can taste is blood. Footsteps vibrate through the earth as Jethro stops in front of her, shoulders quaking as the demon turns towards him, head cocked almost disinterested at his appearance.

“What… who are you!?” he shouts, voice weak and horribly human, “Why are you doing this?”

The demon sighs, stepping almost regretfully forwards. “Oh sweetie. As if a poor little boy like you could even begin to understand...”

“Try me,” and Jethro steps forwards, and in reaction the demon waves a hand, as if swatting him aside. The power catches Jethro like a giant bat, flinging him sideways towards the edge of the clearing. He hits a tree trunk hard, head snapping to one side and he crumples, eyes closed.

Nate feels like her world has stopped and her sister scrambles over to Jethro, desperately trying to not look at the clearing. Lexi crouches besides Jethro, reassured by the rise and fall of his chest and she casts a hopeless glance at her sister who, as if renewed by that, snaps her head around to the demon.

“Well?” Nate snarls, eyes golden, but with a blink they’re almost orange, as if she doesn’t know yet if she’s an alpha or not. “Going to kill us too?” and she’s braver than she has any right to be. “Finish the job!” she cries out, spreading her blood-stained hands where she kneels before the demon.

The woman laughs, “I would, sweetie, but a deal’s a deal.” The demon turns away, dress fluttering in the breeze. Nate scrambles upwards, ignoring the next strangled howl as another snarling wolf dies.

She makes her way towards the tree under which Lexi sits beside Jethro, dabbing at the cut on his forehead with hesitation, not sure what to do. Unsteadily Nate drops down beside her sister, and she gathers the younger girl to her, until she can feel Lexi’s reassuring heartbeat next to her own.

They try not to listen to the howls as the remaining members of the pack die. Even the old wolves, the powerful ones, they’re overpowered so easily it’s almost pitiful.

She rips through them with a grin and a laugh and blackness in her eyes. Her smile is sickly sweet, and yet whatever façade she had maintained however briefly was gone, lost in a blood crazed whirlwind of fury.

“It’s been too long,” she chuckles as if confiding in her victims, hand tightening around one teenager’s neck until she can rip the throat out with one clean pull. “I mean… Hell is nice and all… but this... The best torturers don’t get their hands dirty,” she flicks a lump of flesh from her fingers carelessly. “But I think I’ve kind of missed this. The feel of blood on my skin. The screams.” She leans down to a crying girl, the same one Jethro had been chatting up earlier, “The crack of their bones under my hands…” and blood stained fingers grip and grip and grip and even though Luke closes his eyes, he can still hear the snap.

Everyone dies. She doesn’t spare the children, or the adults, or even the non-werewolves who cower in fear. Some run, and she reaches out and drags them back with invisible fingers, and they claw at the dirt leaving furrows in the soil and broken nails before she deposits them before her and snaps their ribs one by one, smiling each time they scream or beg.

The foolish spit insults at her, and they cry out as their skin dissolves from their flesh, leaving behind muscles and organs all exposed to the open air and she takes her time before ripping one out, beginning a dissection on the still living, still screaming mother.

Her eyes are Hell pit black, and she wonders, as she rips apart a rip cavity, whether this was why Alistair and his dark little apprentice had loved to torture so much. There was a certain joy to watching them all be reduced to this.

Where the sisters crouch, Nate pulls Lexi close to her, her sister’s head in her chest. Lexi was sobbing, but the tears no longer come to Nate over the shock and horror.

Jethro suddenly sits straight upright. She flinches back, standing and he smells like blood (everything smells like blood… it’s never going to go away…) but he smells like fire and bronze and sand over the metallic tang. Somewhere a child dies with a scream and Nate pulls back, away from Jethro and his glowing green eyes, pupil, sclera and iris all a bright, almost iridescent green. Under his skin emerald veins run, sparking like electricity along his neck and arms and face.

“Jethro?” she whispers, not recognising her friend. He doesn’t look at her, just stands mechanically upright like a sleepwalker.

He stares towards the far end of the clearing, focussing on the demon as if he can kill her with his eyes alone. He looks like a predator, as he begins moving towards her, determined and his gaze levelled on where the woman is revelling in the bloodshed and gore.

Nate doesn’t recognise the determination in her friend. She doesn’t recognise the green that dances beneath his skin or from his eyes. It’s like someone has flicked a switch and he’s sprung to life, wired and ready and with only one thing in mind.

The demon is going to pay.

The woman has paused, looking around smirking in triumph at the slaughtered pack, blood mixing with ashes in the soil. Then she looks to the full moon, hanging in the sky. “Oh it’s good to be back,” she whispers, and a snarl echoes through the clearing.

She glances over her shoulder, eyes widening at where Jethro is stalking towards her, his eyes glowing green and his teeth bared, normal and human if not for the green veins creeping up his neck.

“Well, well,” she steps back, “What do we have here…?”

His gaze snaps to her and he launches himself at her, form beginning to blur and the demon’s eyes flash black in startled surprise, clearly slightly taken aback, maybe even frightened. She vanishes, and then reappears next to where Luke is sobbing on the dead pyre, trembling with anguish.

“It was your deal kiddo,” she scoops him up, and he flinches from the feeling of blood on his skin. “Time to go.”

She glanced up once as Jethro leaps towards her, “Thanks for the fun!” she calls, vanishing.

Jethro freezes, first from the sudden change in direction, and then from her sudden teleportation. He flails for a moment panicked, and his eyes are full out glowing now, Nate notices. She grabs Lexi, who shudders close to her, breaking into a run not towards where Jethro now stands, but towards the place he is going to be, acting on instincts that she didn’t know she possessed. Sure enough Jethro readjusts his course for the bonfire, limbs sleek and smooth and dangerous.

Nate thinks she should be running in the opposite direction.

The demon is gone, and Jethro’s gaze pierces through the place she had last stood, as if seeing through space to where she now was. He is glowing now, like a lightbulb, and stalking like a man possessed towards where Luke last stood, the demon too, and Nate is full out running with Lexi to get there in time.

His steps are smooth and measured and she skids, almost tripping over a dead body. She chokes down bile and throws herself the last few steps as Jethro stops, green light coating his figure like a cloak. With one hand she grabs the back of his jacket, and the other still grips onto Lexi’s cold fingers. For a moment her grip slides, slick with blood, but she tightens her hold, just as Jethro’s image lurches, flickers, and then full out vanishes in a flash of light.

It wraps around her like cling film, choking and bright and hot and then she can’t breathe and the world is swept out from under her, but she keeps a hold of her sister and her friend, and prays.

_Someone help._

In their wake the massacred pack lies, bodies mangled and torn with blood staining the ground and the dead bonfire still smouldering, smoke curling in the air.

A blood moon hangs in the air.


	2. Timeless

The clock ticks slowly, and as the second hand passes the large twelve, the minute hand jerks slightly. The sharp, black numbers are bold against the creamy white, and the flare from the hospital lights makes the number three vanish into a sharp glow.

“I swear we’ll be fine…”

Melissa McCall tears her gaze from the slowly ticking clock face, ducking her head so she can hiss sharply into the phone presses to her ear. “It’s not that I don’t trust you,” she begins, tone serious, “And you know I’m a hands-off parent, but the thought of you two boys out in the woods where lately there has been everything from killer lizards to evil English teachers has me seriously worried. I don’t like the thought of you two out there.”

On the other end of the line there is a sigh and Scott shifts the phone in his hand, “Mom, I’m an alpha now…”

“You two might be supernatural teenagers but while you still live in my house young man…” she threatens, leaving Scott hanging, “I expect your homework done.”

Her son gives a huff of amusement, “It’s done. I swear, nothing is going to go wrong this time. And I’ve got my grades up already, I can keep them there.”

Melissa hums sceptically, “So I expect no late nights sneaking off to visit girls.” She continues.

Scott’s embarrassed now, and she wonders if Isaac is around, listening in, “I don’t have a girlfriend,” he almost whines at her, and for a moment she thinks about how much like an embarrassed puppy he sounds.

She wants to pry, she’s curious about how Scott’s finally stepped away from Allison (and Isaac had stepped in just as easily) but she wouldn’t do that to her son. So she changes the subject, “You’re okay, right? After the alpha pack…?” she remembers what they had gone through in that root cellar, the storm, and she remembers what the three had to sacrifice to get there in time.

There’s a pause. “Everything’s good.” And he actually sounds calm, “I think everything is going to be great.” And she can hear the smile in his words.

“Good,” she says, her breath hitching, “Leave dinner in the fridge,” she tells him, “I’ll eat it when my shift ends in…” another glance at the clock. “Three hours. You boys have fun. Take…”

“Care, yeah, I know.”

She smiles despite herself and the doors open, heavy footsteps approaching her desk. “I’ve got to go,” she tells him.

“Bye,” Scott can’t seem to hang up fast enough, and she hears him already moving when the call cuts. She slides her phone into a pocket, looking up over the desk at the people who have just arrived.

They’re teenagers, the same age as her own son with one girl slightly younger. There are two girls with a boy sprawled out between them, his arms draped over their shoulders as they stagger towards her. It’s lopsided, the girl on the right with long blonde hair is shorter, younger than the other one.

They look like sisters, the same coloured hair and the same sharp cheekbones. They also have the same look in their eyes as they slow to a halt and she moves to meet them.

The older girl’s eyes fall on her in relief, “We need to get our friend some help,” she begins, “He… he just collapsed, and I don’t know what’s wrong. He knocked his head and he… he just collapsed… I thought he’d stopped breathing and I couldn’t hear his heartbeat…” her words tumble over each other, an endless babble of panic and worry and stress. Her face is dirty, as if she had fallen over, and her arms look like they’ve been scrubbed raw, but there is still odd patches of dark brown that Melissa recognises with horror as blood.

“I need someone over here!” she calls, “Doctor Osmodai!” she calls, spotting the doctor in relief. She steps towards the girl, prying her fingers away from where they are tangled in her friend’s jacket. She untangles them gently and moves the girl back towards a chair.

The girl stares desperately as the doctor and other nurses tend to the boy. His limbs are limp and lifeless but she can see the faint rise and fall of his chest. It’s weak, the girl is right, and on occasions he seems to skip seconds without breathing.

The younger girl makes an abortive movement to follow after him as they wheel him away to the emergency room, and her hand clutches at thin air before she stumbles back.

“Lexi,” the older girl mumbles, and the younger one goes to her instinctively, pressing against the sister. The two don’t even seem to realise that they’re squashed into one chair, curling up around each other and seeming to gain comfort from the close proximity of each other’s bodies.

Melissa offers a weak smile to the young assistant offering her a clipboard, and she takes it, fishing a pen from her pocket. “He’ll be okay,” she reassures the girls first. “The doctor is new here, but I’ve seen him work. Your friend is in safe hands.”

She reaches out, grasping the older girl’s arm gently. The girl flinches away, blinking at her, and she knows the youngster isn’t really seeing her. “I’m Melissa. I need to know what happened. What’s your name?”

The older one is silent for a moment. “My name is Nate.” She begins hesitantly, but gaining confidence as she continues. Melissa notes the British accents. “This is my younger sister Lexi. That boy is a friend… Jethro…” She stops suddenly, chest heaving as she sucks in a breath, trembling slightly. The younger girl presses herself closer to her sister.

“We were… camping.” The younger one says, staring emphatically at Melissa, “And there was this cliff and Jethro thought it would be cool to try and climb up it.”

“Climb down it,” Nate corrects, idly, “He was trying to climb to the bottom and he slipped.”

“That’s right,” Lexi keeps talking, “He fell. Of course. And he hits his head on the way down. And then he didn’t get up, and so we knew something was wrong. Then we went down after him, which was stupid…”

“I cut my arms on the rock face,” Nate interjects again, and Melissa looks at her, “That’s where…” she waves one arm slightly, crusting with dried blood. It’s wrapped in some fabric so she can’t get a clear look at it.

Melissa makes a motion to reach for the girl’s other arm, but the younger sister shifts, her body suddenly in the way.

“Where are your parents?” Melissa asks gently.

The older girl chokes. The younger one just smiles, but it’s hollow and thin. “We… we’re on holiday. From England…” which Melissa had guessed but now she shifts uncomfortably, wondering about where the health care money will come from. “They’re down… south somewhere…” the girl frowns, staring over Melissa’s shoulder. “And we came up to Beacon Hills for a few days camping. They let us. Obviously.” She chews on her lip, staring with wide eyes at Melissa. “Will Jethro be okay?” she asks, “Can you check up on him?”

“Yes,” the older girl nods, “Can we see him?” she stands, and from where she is crouched Melissa stands too, stepping away. The younger girl appears almost glued to her sister, pressed against her side and Nate has one arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders.

Melissa glances over her shoulder where the door is closed, beneath one of those generic hospital signs with directions to the various wards. “The doctor is with him now,” she turns back to the pair, “But when he’s taken a look at Jethro you can go in.”

Lexi nods, blonde hair falling in her face but Nate glares. For a moment between one blink and another Melissa thinks she sees the girl’s eyes flare an orange gold, but then she blinks and it’s gone. She must have imagined it.

“Do you have contact information for your parents?” Melissa asks them. “And somewhere you can stay?”

The short haired blonde gives a sharp, short nod, her knuckles white. For a moment Melissa questions the validity of their story, a camping accident, but she sees their distraught faces and doesn’t press. “I want to see him,” Nate demands quietly, but with authority.

“I’ll go and see how he is, okay?” Melissa pats the girl reassuringly on her shoulder and again she flinches slightly. “Just wait here.”

She hurries off to where another nurse is grabbing files and hands the information sheet she filled out to her. She leans close, asking about the new arrival.

Above her the lights flicker, before resuming their usual bright glare. She steps back, turning towards where the two girls had stood, preparing to show them to a bed where they could lie down and she could see to the older sister’s supposedly cut arm.

She pauses, examining the waiting room. She glanced around once more, but her initial assessment was correct.

The girls are gone.

Above her the lights flicker with a high pitched mechanical whine, and she is left there frowning.

The lights continue to flare and dim.

***

The leaves crunch under his feet. Twigs snap and branches whistle past inches from his face. He ducks, eyes taking them all in and avoiding them seconds before one takes out his eyes. A laugh escapes him, feeling the thrill of the chase. The air whistles past him and soil slides under him as he takes a running jump, throwing himself through the air. For a moment he feels the earth fall away from under him, and then he slams down, fingers resting in the soft leaf litter for a moment before he takes off again, feet pounding on the ground.

Above him the full moon hangs, fat and heavy in the still-light sky. It’s still early and they’ve got all night and a howl escapes him which somehow turns into a whoop of joy.

The air rushes out of him as something hard tackles into him. He tumbles down the bank, rolling in a tangle of limbs and playful growls.

He slows to a halt, shoving the warm body off him. The weight vanishes with a laugh, and then a yelp and Scott lazily glances to his left, to where the bank drops down a metre or so.

“You asshole!” Isaac shouts up at him, and it’s guttural, and sounds like he’s half wolfed out.

Scott pokes his head over the rise, grinning at his beta. They’re not transformed yet, but their eyes are yellow and red respectively. The alpha just shrugs, unable to stop the grin from creeping onto his face. “You started it,” he says, feeling childish, but with the moon pregnant above him he has all the reason to be.

Isaac growls at him, low in his throat, and Scott pushes himself up until he is standing. He backs away from the bank and then breaks out into a run, turning away. He doesn’t see Isaac leap up over it, but he hears the beta give chase, their footsteps drumming into the forest floor as they race each other.

He can hear his heart beating in his chest, the rhythm steady and reassuring, calm and stable. The blood pounds through his veins and in the back of his mind the wolf howls its joy to be running free with his (admittedly small) pack.

The footsteps behind him increase and he chances a glance over his shoulder. Isaac is gaining on him, and with a silent snarl Scott blurs forwards faster, darting towards a break in the trees.

He emerges out of the forest like a bullet, prepared to take the few long strides that will take him across the road and to the other side of the forest.

The concrete under his feet is hard and rough as he skids to a halt, arms flailing slightly to maintain his balance.

Isaac bursts out behind him, and he does the same thing but slower, knocking into Scott and sending them both stumbling forwards.

In his jeep, blocking the road, Stiles grins at them. “Sorry, wolves,” he shrugs, as if his inconvenient parking simply could not be helped. “Guess I win.” He looks so damn smug that Scott wants to strangle him, but then Stiles turns the key and his jeep splutters to life.

The damn vehicle should have died by now, but instead it hums steadily as Stiles switches gears, flooring the gas and with a screeching protest of tyres it starts off down the road.

Scott frowns, and exchanges a startled glance with Isaac. His beta is just grinning at him, eyes still alight. He shrugs. “Guess the race is on.”

Scott whirls around, slipping back up onto the bank at the side of the road, Isaac starts off beside him but falls back as they manoeuvre the logs and piles of fallen leaves scattered along the road side. To their left the jeep picks up speed, and Scott increases his pace, full out racing the vehicle.

Normal kids spend their evenings playing video games and watching TV. Normal kids worry about girls and school.

Scott isn’t normal. And for the first time he embraces this, as he races his friends down the road.

It’s exhilarating, the pulse of the moon and the wolf instincts that howl to run and run and run forever. The missing part feels complete, because even if Stiles isn’t a wolf, he’s still pack.

He’s also still an annoying jerk whose stupid jeep is driving faster than it has any rights to be. Stiles pulls ahead and Scott can hear his friend’s whoop of joy, which is cut off suddenly as Stiles startles, the brakes crashing down.

The high pitched whine they make in protest has both Isaac and Scott wincing and slowing. They’re travelling so fast that they overshoot where the jeep skids off the tarmac, and they stumble back, dropping back out of the woods to the road.

Looking about Scott frowns. There are no animals, no dead bodies anywhere, and no conceivable reason as to why his friend would brake so suddenly, so sharply. His jeep’s tyres are smoking slightly in protest and there are skid marks on the road behind him. Stiles is gripping the wheel tightly with white knuckles and Scott makes his way in front of the car, walking around to the driver’s door.

“Stiles?” he asks. “Stiles? Are you okay?”

His friend jumps, gaze flying to Scott and then to where Isaac lingers behind him. Scott takes another step forwards and then almost gets brained when the door slams open, and Stiles is scrambling out of the car, frowning as he walks around, ignoring Scott, heading to the front of the car.

“Did you hit something?” Isaac asks, leaning to one side as if to get a better view of whatever poor hapless animal fell afoul of Stiles’ jeep.

Stiles stops in the middle of the road, staring down at the tarmac. “Where did they do?” he asks, glancing between the two wolves. He points down at his feet. “Where did they go?” he asks again.

Scott tilts his head to one side querying. Stiles rounds on him, desperately. Over his best friend’s shoulder he sees Isaac shrugs and mouth a question at him.

“What’s wrong with him?”

Scott ignores Isaac’s unhelpful comment and grabs Stiles by the shoulder, shaking his friend. “Where did what go?” he asks, forcing Stiles to meet his gaze.

The human opens and closes his mouth for a few seconds. Then he glances back at the tarmac. “You… you didn’t see anything?” he asks, hesitantly.

“No.” Scott replies, “Stiles, what did you see?”

Stiles gestures to the ground, “There were… symbols… in white drawn all over the road.” He waves about with his arms, and then begins pacing in a circle, “A big sphere, with lots of little circles and lines in it. Like some sort of Gallifreyan shit.”

“Galli-what?” Isaac asks. Scott shrugs.

Stiles waves a hand dismissively. “Satanic shit,” he says instead. “Pentagrams and Time Lord writing all mashed together. But now…” he stops, crouching down as if to look at it from a different angle. “There’s nothing.” He sighs. “I must have… Maybe I’m tired…” he sounds slightly defeated.

“Or maybe,” and there are times Scott wishes Isaac would just shut up. “Maybe it’s that sacrifice near death thing you went through, and it’s still messing with you.”

Stiles presses his lips together in a thin line. “I… yeah,” he says, weakly. “Forget it. I was just… seeing things.” He seems like he doesn’t like admitting it.

He heads back to his car and Scott jogs over to the forest edge as his friend’s vehicle starts up.

Just out of reach of the tree line beyond their view, in a clearing surrounding a tree trunk, there is a circle of dead life. A bird flies too close, wings flapping happily. When it hits the circle though, marked out by the dried brown grass and wilted flowers, the avian drops dead, heart stopping instantly. It falls on top of a pile of varying other dead life, their corpses rotting, yet strangely without smell.

Around the tree trunk black smoke drifts.

***

“Get up!” his mom calls at him. His alarm is shouting at him, and he slams his hand down on it.

He shakes his head, but the sound still rings in his ears, shouting at him. It rings and the world vibrates.

“Scott! School!” his mom calls, but it’s in the background, indistinct and vague.

He stands, pushing the covers from him and moving over to the window. The light pooling through a gap in the curtains pulses, and in his ears there is a high pitched ringing.

The whole world tilts. He thinks he must have some sort of fever, or he’s really sick (and then he remembers that he doesn’t get sick any more.)

Is it possible to get full moon fever?

Someone calls his name and he turns, looking for them, but finding his room empty in the sharp, clean light of the morning. There’s another shout and then a scream and his head snaps around again.

He cautiously brushes open his curtains, but it’s like he’s opened a door and turned up the volume as the sounds grow in strength. He can hear everything, from his mom banging open cupboards downstairs, to the stove heating up with regular clicks.

It’s loud, and it’s too much. He clenches his eyes closed and drops to his knees, hands over his ears. The television is playing three houses down. Cars race down the road and a bird is singing some repetitive song, over and over and…

There is whispering. Words layered over words and sounding like a babbling brook.

He wants it to shut up. He wants to turn whatever it is in him that has magnified all his senses off.

He’s never felt like this before, after a full moon. Maybe it was typical for all alphas…

Someone screams. The whispers rise in volume. It’s an indistinguishable murmur of words, roaring over each other in a crescendo. He picks up bits and pieces, all jumbled together. It’s like a radio badly out of tune, static crackling in his ears.

He tries to focus on one sound, one noise. Scott finds it in a heartbeat, stuttering out a regular, pounding pulse.

It takes him longer than it should to realise it’s his own heart.

A loud click echoes through Scott’s head, and he blinks his eyes open, to find Stiles staring at him.

What the hell was Stiles doing at his house so early?

“And coach is crazy!” Stiles tells him, and Scott has no idea what he is talking about. “He must have been dropped on his head one too many times as a baby, because there is no way…” His gaze drifts past his friend, and there is light streaming in through an open door, and reflecting off the bright flint of the locker that Stiles is standing by, pulling out books and stuffing them into his bag, and Scott stares, blinking again.

What the hell?

“Dude, are you even listening?”

He ignores Stiles, reaching out and pressing his hands to the cold metal. It’s real. It doesn’t give way under his skin.

But… he was at his house. He was standing by the window with his senses freaking out.

And now…

He looks around, the usual smell of school assaulting his sense of smell. Cheap cleaner, books, dust and people all mingled together. There is quiet chatter in the corridor, as people hurry between classes without worry.

He looks the other way, where he can see Allison and Lydia in the distance, giggling over something. Further down one of the twins is chatting up Danny, making it assumedly Ethan.

Scott glances down at himself, fully clothed and bag slung over one shoulder. He doesn’t remember grabbing it… doesn’t remember getting dressed or getting to school.

How did he even get there?

One moment he was at home and the next…

“Hey! Wolfie! You zoning out on me?”

“I…” Scott stutters, “I was at home. In bed. Then I was here.”

Stiles arches one eyebrow. “Yeah, class is boring for me too.” He replies.

Scott falls silent, glancing at his watch. The digital watch is usually reassuring with its soft glow, but now it’s got numbers of eleven and forty-five and he’s missing time. It’s been eaten, destroyed, and seven went and turned into an eleven without him realising it.

The bell rings, and the sound is jarringly loud. For a moment it rings longer than it should in his ears, and he half expects it to go on and for him to wake up, back at home in bed, but then Stiles shoves his shoulder, directing him towards his next lesson. “Come on,” his friend sighs, muttering, “This is what I get for babysitting a werewolf, the day after the full moon.”

Scott trails behind his best friend, pinching himself. He’s dreaming maybe. Or potentially he’s just losing his mind.

It was probably just a wolf thing. He should shrug it off, but there’s something about the whole ‘I don’t know what I did in the last three hours’ that rubs him the wrong way. Scott staggers into class and takes a seat at his desk. The new history teacher is writing down notes on the black board, and with a sigh Scott shakes his head, and pulls out his book.

He’s already been granted a free pass to two lessons already. He’s not going to be so lucky as to miss another.

He doesn’t know what happened between that morning and now, and some part of him is completely terrified. Did he wolf out? Did he hurt someone? Or did he just have his mind on other things?

Then there’s the part of Scott that seems to recognise the fact that it’s wrong, and not normal and _holy crap_ there is no way that’s English.

His breath catches as he looks at the first page. He is expecting letters, small and neatly printed, but instead it’s been replaced by some sort of strange hieroglyphics that sprawl across the page. He puts his hands on the smooth glossy page, tracing the harsh, jarring lines of an unknown language.

Panic wells within him and he turns the page, finding more of the strange language. He keeps turning, page after page trying valiantly to find a word of English amongst the chaotic symbols that mar every page.

The book slams shut and he looks up, breathing heavily.

“Dude, are you… okay?” Stiles is staring at him. The whole class if staring at him and he flinches, standing suddenly.

He glances back down at the book and it’s in English. He hesitantly opens it to a page somewhere in the middle.

It’s all English. There are no strange symbols, no strange language.

The room is suddenly too small, and he grabs his bag and shoves his chair backwards. It makes a grating squeak and he stammers some sort of apology to the teacher and makes for the door.

“Scott!?” he hears Stiles call, confused, but then he is through the door and out into the corridor. He slings his bag onto his back, pacing down the hallway and away from the class room. His breathing is shallow, weak, and his hands are trembling.

He pauses by a window and drops his bag, spinning around and walking a few steps back down the corridor before turning angrily and walking back. He feels better, near the light, able to see the outside from here, the forest in the distance, and the wolf in him, relaxes.

He paces up and down the corridor, hands running through his hair. The wolf at the back of his mind whines and for a moment he doubles over, hands fisting in his hair and his eyes clenched closed as he tries to stop it from emerging.

He stands, eyes opening and he slows his breathing, listening to his heartbeat. It’s stifling in the school, which makes no sense for late winter, but regardless he steps towards a window, unlocking it and opening it, breathing in the fresh air.

He spots her then, at the far end of the car park. He doesn’t take much notice, turning away and closing his eyes, suddenly aware of how tired he is from the full moon the previous night.

Then he looks up at on the wall, heart stuttering. In front of him is a giant symbol, marked out in black spray paint like graffiti. He steps towards it, one hand reaching out towards it. It’s a triangle, pointing down. The lines extend and then flick outwards, passing through a large V, like the Roman numeral for five.

He presses his hand to the black line, and the image wavers, and he steps away sharply as the black image blurs, seeping off the walls and weeping. It runs down dripping like tears and blurs into posters and school work that’s been pinned to the walls.

There is no symbol there.

Scott whirls around; refusing to face the fact he might be losing his mind. Again his eyes fall on the girl lingering on the corner outside. She’s unnaturally still, and he frowns, because she was about his age, and should probably be in school.

He steps closer to the window, peering at her, and she glances around nervously, as if sensing his gaze. He takes another step forwards, and beneath his feet a mop bucket tips and he stumbles, grabbing onto it to try and stop it from falling over and spilling everywhere. He looks up, trying to find the girl again, but when his eyes spot the corner where she had been lingering there is no-one there.

“What you looking at?” Lydia asks from behind him.

“I… there was a girl… hanging around outside.”

She steps past him, moving daintily over to the window. She tilts her head, looking out and down the street to the car park. “Where?” she asks, glancing back at him, “I don’t see anyone.”

He steps forwards; navigating the mop bucket some careless janitor had probably left there just to spite a student like him. “She was right there,” he points. Again Lydia follows his gaze.

“Scott…” she begins hesitantly. “There… there was nobody there.”


	3. Personal Demons

“They call it a hunter’s moon. That’s supposed to be good, right?”

The man in the driver’s seat sighs, his left arm propped against the door, his head resting in it as he watches out of the window with predatory eyes.

Next to him his brother just keeps talking, not catching the sign to stop. “No, wait, the hunter’s moon is in October. This is probably the snow moon or something, which… may be good. Damn… I don’t think we’re ready for this, Dean. We don’t have anything to take her on with.”

Outside the night is calm, pleasant almost if it wasn’t for the chill in the air and the full moon hanging overhead. The black car is barely visible on the dead end road, studded with patches of gravel where some poor fellow had tried to fill in the potholes. Weeds grow in a tangled clump along the side, their greedy fingers wrapping around a rotting, half-collapsed picket fence that trails the roadside. Beyond there is an empty field of green, a dark teal in the darkness.

“This place is in the middle of nowhere,” Sam continues, “And I mean… how much do we really trust Crowley? He said that this was the place, because apparently it’s where the guy was exorcised, but beyond that…? She could have chosen anywhere!”

Dean’s fingers tap out a rhythm on his thigh, and it gradually develops into the chords of a Metallica song.

“Dude are you ignoring me? I knew we should have brought Cas. Even without wings he’s still an angel. It’s more than we currently have. We don’t even know that angel blades work on her.”

Dean stops tapping, turning to glare at his younger brother, “Shut up and stop bitching,” he snaps irritably. Sam wonders if his brother has slept at all recently. “We’re here because Crowley says it’s here, and ever since you worked your magic…” his right hand tries to make a gesture to emphasise his point but it fails and he drops it back down, “Ever since he got humanised, he’s the best deal we’ve got.”

“And Cas?” Sam challenges, because at least now he’s got his brother talking. “Why isn’t he here?”

Dean casts his eyes towards the car ceiling, as if maybe looking up towards Heaven.

Except Castiel isn’t there anymore.

“He’s got angel trouble,” Dean shrugs one shoulder, “What with our new friend Bart and company…”

Sam frowns. “The Simpson?” he asks.

“The angel you douche,” Dean straightens in his seat, “Whatshisname Bartholemew.”

Sam’s eyebrows go up in his head and he considers this, looking sideways at his brother with one of those expressions on his face. This one is silently asking Dean, ‘what the hell is your obsession with nick-naming the angels?’

Dean ignores him, leaning forwards and peering over the steering wheel down the road. It ends in a dead path, a gate hanging awkwardly on hinges with a footpath behind. Beyond that a house looms in the darkness, all shadows and dark corners, with a tangle of unrestrained undergrowth wrapped around it in a protective embrace.

Occasionally a gust of wind sends a loose shutter on the upper window flapping open, creaking on rusty hinges. It’s your typical ghost house, rusting timbers that groan and threaten to give way at any moment. It’s almost clichéd in a way, and neither brother appreciates it, both of them bundles of nerves and tension, waiting for the right moment.

Dean’s drumming fingers continue, and the quiet tapping is louder than it has any right to be. Sam makes a move towards the radio, because even the blaring rock would be better than the half heard tune, the rest of it all in his brother’s head.

Dean slaps his hand away, “Don’t,” he complains, and Sam doesn’t bother to argue. He knows Dean will just play the ‘my car, my rules’ card and so he slumps in his seat, stretching out his legs as much as he is able to.

There is silence for a while, and the sound of their breathing is the only thing that they can hear. Sam finds without realising it that he and his brother have matched their breaths until it sounds like there is only one person in the car, their calm, measured breathing overlaying each other almost perfectly.

Sam shivers. There’s a chill in the air, but it’s dry, the ground cracked at it runs up towards the house. There are three windows downstairs, facing them with sightless eyes, and another two upstairs. There are cracks in the white washed walls, spread out like a spider web.

One of the downstairs windows flares with light. The far left one.

Both brothers automatically stiffen as the light flickers, and then grows slightly, as if a candle has been lit. Dean automatically reaches for his Colt ’45, reassured by the familiar weight and grip.

There is a crack, a loud sound that could be anything from a snapping bone to lightning, but it’s too loud, too sharp and it ends far, far too soon. Above the sky is still clear, but the air now hangs heavy as if in wait of something.

Something dark.

Sam and Dean exchange a single glance. No words pass between them because no words are needed. Dean somewhat appreciates having Sam there to watch his back, because even though it’s still weak, still broken and crumpled in places, the trust is there. They’ve had to step away from each other, but there’s always going to be that layer that makes the Winchester brothers just _work_ together, a well-oiled machine with no room for error.

At least not until the next angel or demon or vampire comes along and shoves a spanner in the works, but Dean will deal with that when it comes to it.

They wordlessly slide out of the car, the doors shutting as quietly as they can, which for Sam isn’t silent enough, and for Dean, he just pats his car as one would a dog, before leaving it to stalk towards the house. They move like predators, sleek and well trained, right up until the point Dean stubs his toe and bites his lip to stop himself from swearing.

There is a stone half hidden in the ground. Dean crouches down, pulling away the tangle of grass and roots from it.

Inscribed into the square shaped rock is a sigil. It looks like a castle, with battlements along the top in a little square. The lines don’t meet, and at the bottom of the castle the lines veer outwards, curling around. From these arcs, hang crosses, and circles like some sort of twisted balancing scale.

“What do you want to bet that’s going to be our new arrival if we don’t do something soon?” Dean whispers in a hushed tone to his brother.

“That’s creepy, dude. It’s like some sort of grave marking to him.”

Dean stands, moving towards the gate, “Come on,” he gestures at Sam. The pair bypass the gate entirely, instead creeping through a gap in the hedge. They fall silent, and Dean motions to Sam in quick sharp gestures that only Sam appears to understand, as he nods and slips to one side, heading around the back.

Dean paces towards the front door. The window on the far left is lit with soft, orange light from a candle that sits in the window, illuminating the room, but also casting shadows on the contents within. Shadows move about inside and he finds himself holding his breath as he turns the door handle.

The door creaks slightly. Typical. He slides in like a cat, gun angled towards the ground. There is a hallway next to the door, but at some point it was half-way towards being turned into a large open single room. There’s only a thin piece of wall that separates him from the room to his left, and it ends in a large archway through to where the candle light flickers. He doesn’t pay much attention to the rest of the house, a door leading through to what looks like a kitchen with old, mouldy surfaces and cracked tiles, instead pressing himself towards the wall and edging towards the arch from which the light seeps.

He doesn’t make it two steps before a voice drifts through to him from the room on the left. It’s rich, and full of amusement and deadly power that sends a tremor down his right arm. “Don’t lurk there in the hallway like a stalker, Dean.”

Dean doesn’t answer. He reaches around, tucking the gun into his belt and then slipping a shining silver blade from his jacket pocket. It’s almost circular, and it’s hard to tell where the grip ends and the blade begins. On first impression the angelic sword doesn’t look sharp, but when it catches the light leaking out of the room there is a fuzzy edge to it, that vanishes into that which human eye can’t perceive, and Dean knows from experience that it cuts not just through flesh and bones, but through grace and soul as well.

He weighs it in his hand for a few seconds, before mimicking Cas and sliding it up his sleeve.

Dean turns slowly and steps out into the archway. He thinks in vain that Sam was right, and they are woefully unprepared for this, but then again what exactly could they have attempted to do to improve their chances? They were the Winchesters. Nobody wanted to deal with them, to help them out, not when they played with life and death, heaven and hell as casually as they did.

He swallows down his fear and steps forwards, grip tightening on the angel blade. The room ahead of him is lit with candles, one on the windowsill, and another two on a table against the right wall.

It’s some sort of altar, draped with a white cloth and a metallic bowl, probably bronze, with dried green and brown plants resting within. Dean can also see sharp yellow-white which suggests bones, but it’s hard to tell because the herbs are smouldering softly and giving the whole room a sickly sweet smell.

The ceiling is a myriad of cracks, with a large gaping section where the plaster is missing. Just beyond that hangs a crystal chandelier, and the faceted surface sends sparkles of light shooting around the room like some sort of disco ball. Below it stands the demon, her red hair cascading loosely around her shoulders and clashing with her black leather jacket.

“Hello Dean,” Abaddon smiles, “How nice of you to join us.”

Dean notes the ‘us’ and he looks beyond Abaddon, to where a man is tied up. The youngish guy kneels on the floor, bound and gagged with sandy blonde hair and brown eyes that meet Dean’s, wide and scared. He struggles but Dean can see the knots have already rubbed his skin raw, and knows that he’s not going anywhere.

The hunter steps towards the man who tries to make a noise, but it’s muffled by the gag. There is a tutting sound from the demon, who steps in Dean’s path, her head shaking disapprovingly. “Now, now,” she tells him, “You can just wait until it’s your turn.”

Dean stops, standing still as she moves towards him, sleek, languid steps. His heart thuds in his chest as she moves well within his personal space limits, her gaze meeting his. She’s beautiful, fierce and deadly, and Dean prays that Sam gets a move on with their plan. “Careful darlin’,” he drawls instead, sounding more confident than he is, “You’re almost worse than an angel with personal space issues,” and he steps back, away from her.

She follows, lips smirking somewhat. “You’d know, wouldn’t you?” she asks, “What with that pet angel of yours?”

He doesn’t know if she’s referring to Castiel or Gadreel, but either way she leans forwards, her body pressed against his. One hand reaches up to cup his cheek, fingers tracing the jawline while the other grips his wrist, and the angel blade that he had barely closed his grip on drops under the tight nails that leave bloody imprints on his skin.

He gives her a weak smirk, “What can I say?” he asked rhetorically, as she circles around behind him, one eye still on the silver sword at his feet. “I had to try.”

The sword slides away as if kicked by invisible feet. “It’s a shame you’re so defiant, Dean.” Abaddon seems to like molesting his name, “You’d make a perfect vessel otherwise.”

“This ass has so far remained demon _and_ angel free.” His voice is tense. “I’d like to keep it that way.”

She circles back around in front of him, her one hand trailing across his chest to where they both know his anti-possession tattoo lies. “I don’t know,” she hums, “Then again it’s too be expected really…” she continues circling him, rounding past his left shoulder with slow, measured steps and the floorboards creak underneath her. “Do you know why I’m here?” she asks him.

She vanishes in his blind spot but Dean doesn’t flinch. He mentally shouts at Sam to hurry up, but doesn’t visibly give anything away, doesn’t even glance towards the ceiling where upstairs, he knows Sam is spraying out a devil’s trap over this very spot.

_Get a freakin’ move on Sammy!_

“Why don’t you tell me?” he barters.

“I could,” she shrugs one shoulder, emerging back into his field of vision on his right side, “Maybe I don’t want to.”

“And here you struck me as one of those villains who like to monologue.” He sighed.

“A villain, Dean, really?” she laughs at him, her lips a deep red that matches her hair. “Is that what you see me as?”

Her hand traces down his shoulder and he recoils slightly.

“I’m more of a… faithful servant.” She says, and then stops. Her hand lingers over just below the crook of his elbow where unseen the mark is branded into his skin. “Well,” she hums, stepping away from him, “You’ve been busy. Meeting new people, reaching for the higher places…” Dean hopes he sees panic in her eyes but it’s gone almost immediately, replaced by smug knowing, “Are you going to kill me, Dean?”

She leans forwards and he tries to move backwards, but her hand clenches as she leans close, “You know I am,” he whispers to her, glaring.

Her perfect lips curl up into an open grin, “Then where’s the blade?” She pulls away thankfully, relaxed and at ease now, “What are even doing here?” she spreads out her arms, “If you don’t even have it! You can’t kill me! Those little angel swords can’t hurt me!”

“I don’t need the blade to kill you,” Dean snarls, hatred churning in his gut.

She considers him for a fraction of a second. Then she smiles, and Dean’s hopes drop. She’s too confident. “Did you really think you could trick me?” she asks him, and she reaches up towards non-existent stars, as if to pull them down to earth.

There’s a crash as the ceiling gives way in the centre of the room, the cracked plaster breaking in a cloud of dust as something crashes down, and Dean lurches instinctively towards the gangly long limbs of his brother. Beyond the poor gagged guy winces, whimpering through his gag as Sam crashes down in front of him.

“Sam!” he shouts, and there is a groan from his younger brother who rolls to the side, before stilling, and even through the dust and broken bits of ceiling Dean knows he is wincing in pain.

Dean’s only a few steps away from Sam, when suddenly he can’t breathe. There is no oxygen to be found and he chokes on nothing. There are footsteps as Abaddon strolls over, and she flicks her hand.

An invisible force takes a hold of his brother, picking him up and throwing him against the wall. She moves closer to Sam, and Dean wants to get her away, because the last time a demon touched his brother the poor kid ended up high on demon blood, but the red-head merely slips one hand into Sam’s jacket and draws out the demon killing knife.

“It was a nice plan,” she turns to him, standing. Dean tries to gasp out an insult but he can’t even draw in a single breath. He feels his vision blackening as invisible hands clamp down on his windpipe. “Shame it didn’t work,” she steps past him, as he slips down onto the floor, splinters digging in under his nails.

Black spots his vision but it’s intermingled with white and yellow and he’s not exactly sure when but at some point he can breathe again, sucking in gasps of air like a dying man which he quite nearly almost was.

He’s pinned with his back to the wall on the right side of the room. He looks up, eyes roving around frantically and spotting where Sam is pinned directly opposite him. His brother hangs limply, arms out to either side of him.

It takes longer than it should for his oxygen deprived brain to realise his younger brother is unusually still, and then that he can see Sam’s features outlined in moonlight.

The hole through which the ceiling collapsed is a gaping wound above them. Above that the roof tiles are broken, and the rafters snapped to provide direct access to the sky above. Through the two stories of the house, Dean can see moonlight pouring down, the moon almost directly above the gap and shining down onto the floorboards.

“You’re so obedient,” Abaddon places the metal bowl underneath the chandelier, “Coming when you’re called. That’s what I like about you Winchesters.” She moves towards Dean and he tries to move, to reach a blade, a knife, something.

It’s useless, and she has him pinned with all her demonic mojo.

In a stupid, desperate attempt the words of the exorcism roll of his tongue, but then once again his oxygen supplies become non-existent and he stops, choking.

“Don’t try it,” the demon leans over him. She grabs his wrist, pinning it out to the side. There is a blade glittering in her other hand. With a deft twist she spins it around and buries it into his arm.

Dean’s still struggling to breathe so the cry is soundless. Without even waiting for a pause Abaddon materialises another blade and drives it into his other arm. Then suddenly he can breathe. Pain runs through his arms, and he has the vague thought of hoping she hadn’t stabbed the mark before she pulls out another knife, ornamental and looking almost blunt.

The hunter is already categorising the pain in a compartment of his mind as he reprioritises. He knows now why Sam isn’t moving, why he hangs against the wall so limply, pinned there not just by the demon telekinesis, but by the blades he hadn’t noticed before, crucifying him to the fucking wall. Now Dean looks closely he can see Sam is shaking, slight breaths that contrast his own heaving gasps for air now that the hold on his throat has been released again.

Sam is still alive, and he hopes he stays that way, even if Dean doesn’t make it out of this.

He doesn’t think he can survive it if Sam dies.

He’s honestly expecting the silver ornamental knife through his chest, which is why it takes him by surprise when she merely presses it against his arm, where rivulets of blood trace patterns down his arm.

The blade shimmers as the blood drips onto it, and he strains his eyes, barely able to pick out the rust red where Sam’s blood already stains the blade. It was unhygienic really, and Dean would have made such a comment if he had his breath back.

“Couldn’t have down this without you boys,” she directs to the pair.

Sam raises his head weakly, hair hanging in his eyes and curses her. Dean is relieved to hear his brother’s voice. Neither knows quite how they got themselves so involved in this ritual as Abaddon paces to the centre of the room, standing under the moonlit hole and beginning an invocation.

It doesn’t sound like Latin, and it’s too flowing to be Enochian. Neither brother recognises the words, and if both were honest, they were both more worried about each other bleeding out than trying to identify the language. Abaddon had cut what was probably a major artery, probably on purpose knowing her, and Dean can feel each pulse of blood that left him, making him dizzy.

Dean wonders if maybe it’s time to retire after this.

There is a rumble of thunder, but the sky remains clear. Abaddon stands in the centre of the room, the crystal chandelier shaking above her. To her left lies Sam, and the younger Winchester vaguely acknowledges that he, the tainted one, lies on the west side of the room where the sun sets while Dean, the righteous one, is on the east side of the room where the sun rises.

To the north the host body struggles, eyes wide and terrified and his whimpers through the gag. The chanting continues, growing in volume. The candles in the room flicker out and then relight themselves, and the earth seems to shake.

With one final word Abaddon brings the knife down on the floor between the brothers. Dean and Sam’s eyes meet as the blade buries itself in the floorboards.

It’s dead silent.

“So…” Dean speaks, breaking it, heart pounding, “I guess your ritual didn’t work?” he grins, happier than he should be from where he is crucified to the wall.

She just smiles at him, far too smugly for Dean to get a fucking break for a change. Instead he is aware of the blood that has dripped down to the floor moving towards the blade. It’s like a magnet, attracting the red viscous liquid, and Dean knows that Sam’s blood is doing the same.

The older Winchester sees it, muscles tensing and then relaxing to try and avoiding losing any more life force through the knife dug into his lower arm.

He’d lost too much already and Sam must have lost even more. Random and stupid thoughts were flying through his head. Such as: hadn’t Abaddon read the Bible? She was meant to crucify him through the hand, wasn’t she? It was also kind of ironic how Sam they used to think was the Anti-Christ, and now he was probably going to die like Christ.

It’s like with Lilith, Sam opposite his brother realises with horror, as the two veins of liquid run steadily on a crash collision course with each other, the blade in the centre. Dean lets out a hollow laugh around that time, head sagging and the younger Winchester wonders who is worse off in this situation, because for a change they both seem pretty battered.

The blood meets with a crack, and the ground rattles in reply and Dean can feel the burn from Sam’s bitch face for jinxing everything. There is a snapping sound as a fissure runs out from where the knife is buried in the floor. It spreads slowly like cracking ice, like something is forcing its way up from underneath. Their blood steams slightly, as the floorboards splinter, snapping like broken bones.

Abaddon steps back laughing. She’s triumphant and deadly and jubilant as the house begins shaking. She steps back just as the crystal chandelier falls, with a loud crash. The crystals splinter, hitting the ground and smashing into a million glass droplets like tears.

Dean turns away, his eyes shut to try and protect them from the mist of glass. The moonlight still pouring through the hole and down onto the knife makes them shine in all colours, as they bounce and bounce and then still.

The floorboards groan as they are ripped apart, and Sam sees the first wisp of black smoke materialise. Then there is another crack, and the wood is ripped aside as a smoky body emerges, no features distinct. Horror overcomes him as he witnesses the demon claw its way out of the earth, claw its way out of hell…

Because they’d seen demons before, black smoke and coloured eyes, but never before had Sam seen their true forms, and for a moment under the shroud of smoke the whole image flickers like static. It is for barely a second, but he catches sight of rotting flesh and huge burns marring the skin, and the burnt black skeletal form of what once might have been wings, small and stumped on its back.

Then thankfully the form is gone, back to the indistinct, black smoke, featureless and blurred around the edges. The centre of its form is burning, charred cinders and embers clinging to it in a faint reminder of hellfire. The scent of brimstone permeates the air, and Dean closes his eyes, images of hell and Alistair leaking out from the wall he had barricaded it behind.

The cinder ash form blurs and then flares out in a faint mockery of wings, before with a rush, forming itself into a funnel and swooping towards where the bound man still struggles desperately.

His mouth is still gagged, but the demonic form just forces his head up and shoves its way in his eyes and nose. There’s a faint roaring sound as the demonic smoke forces its way in, unceremoniously and violently, brutalising the host before the possession has even begun. Finally the last wisps of black tendrils vanish and the host slumps, body still for a moment.

Then with a heaving gasp the now possessed man startles upright, limbs convulsing and trembling.

His limbs jerk like a marionette puppet, twitching as if in a seizure. The ropes and gag smoulder and then burn away, ash crumpling to the ground as they vanish into dust and ashes.

His eyes slam open and both Dean and Sam, against their better wishes look towards the new arrival. They both flinch back when the eyes open a sickly yellow and Sam can’t help it when he chokes out “Azazel.”

The man stretches, neck cracking as he clenches his fingers. “Oh this is nice,” he murmurs appreciatory, yellow gaze regarding the room and where Abaddon is grinning triumphantly. “Very nice,” he repeats, standing and looking down at himself. “How much did this cost?” he chuckles, straightening his shirt and looking at the black-eyed demon.

“I found it cheap at a bar,” Abaddon sneers at him.

The demon shrugs, seemingly easy-going. He rolls his shoulders, circling them as if he should have wings or something attached and slightly puzzled that they aren’t there. His gaze catches sight of the brothers and he steps forwards. Their gaze follows him, both wary of his presence.

“Well crap,” Dean says, meeting Sam’s gaze across the room. Sam has a slight frown, and Dean shakes his head in a slight jerk because he knows he killed Azazel, he knows the guy is dead but if so… why is he standing here?

“Why…so…frightened?” the guy takes time picking each word, as if getting used to his voice. “I mean… I’ve heard about you. Everyone’s heard about you. Sam and Dean Winchester.”

Dean really wishes the demons would stop molesting their names like that. It makes him feel uncomfortable.

“So these are the famous vessels, huh?” he asks, dragging out the ‘s’ as he paces between them. Sam frowns at him, because this isn’t Azazel. It scares him that he knows that, but the demon that had tormented their family was nothing like this.

With a flick of his fingers the knives that are buried in Sam and Dean’s arms twist in deeper and both brothers let out cries of pain.

“Handsome fellas’,” the demon grins, “Can see why Mike and Lucy were so insistent on them.” He steps forwards over the broken glass which crunches under his feet and then spins around suddenly as if remembering something, “Abaddon!” His hands fly out slightly in greeting, “You’re looking…” he stops suddenly, leering at the meatsuit.

“Belial.” She replies shortly, and from over where Sam is wincing in pain Dean sees his eyes widen. He recognises the name too and he bites his lip, trying to struggle free, not really caring at this point if he rips the muscle trying to get those damn knives out of his arms.

“So is it time? Is it? Is it?” Belial tilts his head conspiringly at Abaddon, grinning like a demented puppy.

“What do you think?” she asks, scornfully, “Do you think I broke you out of the deepest pits of Hell just for the pleasure of your company?”

“I’m hurt,” the yellow eyed demon presses his hands over his heart, “Well.” He reconsiders, “I would be if I cared.” He skips over to her, his eyes flashing a sickening swirl of colours. “Unfortunately I… well…” he glances at Sam and Dean, “I don’t think I have soul. Don’t think I ever did, really.” He flashes a white-toothed grin. “So Polly,” he says instead, clapping his hand together and turning to her. “What are you going to do about them?” he asks. He doesn’t need a gesture to refer to who is talking about, but he stabs a thumb over his shoulder anyway.

“Leave them,” Abaddon steps back, half turning away, “They’re no longer useful.”

A grin catches the corner of Belial’s lips. “Well in that case…” he flings out a hand.

Sam just has enough to think ‘well we fucked this up’ before he is ripped from the wall, the knives being torn out of the plaster with him. He falls forwards to the floor, landing heavily on one shoulder, jarring it, and Dean lands with a whimper next to him, hitting the floor and rolling onto his back to try and protect his arms.

They have barely a moment to look up at each other, before with a shuddering crack the floorboards break underneath them.

Sam’s brain choses that moment to remind him that there isn’t a basement below, that there shouldn’t be a gap in the earth that should just be able to collapse open, but the sink hole is there and for the second time that night he falls. The floor falls away beneath him in a manner horrible reminisce of falling into the cage. Soil crushes in on him, complete with rocks and bits of brick and glass and he clenches his eyes closed as darkness presses in on him. Somehow a hand finds Dean’s jacket and clings onto it, and this time at least, they fall together.

Then the earth swallows him and Dean whole.

Belial watches for a moment as the earth cracks beneath them, opening up to make a pretty little pit just for the brothers. Then he lets the soil and shattered glass and wood crash down on top of them. “Let’s see them try and claw their way out from that,” he smirks, “And if they don’t well… it saves them the trouble of digging a grave.” He turns to Abaddon, his eyes glowing yellow and lips curled up in a sick leer. “It’s not particularly inventive,” he shrugs, “But I’ve got to say it’s appropriate.”

“Stop playing around,” the Knight sneers at him. “We have work to do.”

She spins away and the other demon just shrugs. “Gonna’ begrudge me a bit of fun?” he asks. “It’s been awhile after all.”

Between one step and another, the demons are gone, leaving an empty room with no floor, the ground collapsed into one churned up mess.

Sam and Dean are left, buried in their own graves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder this is set post s09e13The Purge and then will sort of run AU along the end of s09. It would do at least if spn didn't keep having stupid freaking breaks after only two weeks worth of episodes. I think there's another break planned for another two weeks. Seriously? What's up with that?  
> Comments are love. They might get Sam and Dean un-buried (is that a word?) faster.


	4. Yellow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter revolves around one of the original characters, but actually focuses more on the two villains that have been introduced.  
> Under the instructions to make them 'scary' I accidentally went a bit overboard and now Belial is sort of insane. In a really creepy way in my opinion but you'd have to comment and tell me what you think!

There isn't a sound when she steps out of nowhere on the rise at the edge of the forest. One minute she isn't there and the next moment she is, smoke curling around her, licking around her and blurring the sharp edges of her form. Her left hand is twisted cruelly into the collar of the boy in her grip, and he falls to his knees upon arrival.

She doesn't let go, instead taking a deep breath as if scenting the air.

The second arrivals appear with a crack. It's like a gunshot, tearing apart the air as they stumble into view in a flash of green light. The lanky boy drops to the ground, eyes rolling up in his head and the demon snarls.

The short haired blonde girl looks up, and for a moment alpha red eyes meet black before the demon yanks on the boy in her grip like she was tugging at a dog's leash. Then she is gone.

They arrive in an alley way, dark and dingy with trash and puddles of tainted water spreading across the cracked surface. Beyond there is the hustle of the city, lively and completely unaware of the darkness that just walked into their midst's. She drops the boy immediately as if he is something disgusting. Luke sprawls despondently on the floor, sobbing, his muscles lax as he sinks down. She's thought the term sinking into despair was a metaphor, but the boy… he wallows in it. She smiles, crouching besides him, tasting the scent of self-pity and self-loathing.

If she was in Hell she'd spend days playing on this, whispering nasty thoughts into his head.

I'm gonna kill you eventually you know. You're mine now. I own you.

Do you know what you caused? How many are dead because of you? Are you sure you can still live with yourself after what you did?

But she's not in Hell and she has a schedule to stick to.

That and this boy is a whining brat. He's already thinking all of these things himself and worse.

"Did you kill them?" he whimpers, sounding like a kicked puppy. "I don't… take me back. I've changed my mind I don't… I don't want this…"

Instantly her soft façade drops and she sneers at him, "A deal with the likes of me, sweetie, requires participation on both sides." her fingers trace his jawline, before digging in cruelly, "Anyway," she continues, smiling sweetly at him, "Daddy would disapprove if I went against the rules."

He continues to shudder, whimpering and whining. With a snarl she backhands him, and he falls, sprawling out across the concrete. His gaze stares at his reflection in a grimy puddle, and he forces his eyes closed.

"How sweet," she coos, "Trying to block it out. But I'm sorry, because this…" and she digs her fingernails into his arms until his eyes fly open, and he can see her leaning over him, black eyes and all. "This is real." she whispers in his ear.

He can smell the sulphur in her breath, and it's all he can do to keep his stomach steady. The tight grip relents and she brushes a lock of hair out of his eyes. "Don't worry," she chimes again, looking down at his reflection, "I'll find you a new, nice body. A handsome body… one you can be proud of and feel comfortable in. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

His mouth moves but no words come out.

"I mean, it's been so hard, being the freak all the time," she plays his fears like a musical instrument, "But I can make you better. Fix you. God didn't make you right but my God would have. And so I'll fix you. I'll fix you up aaaalll good." she croons.

His breathing is steadier, and even though his eyes are wary, scared (she loves that look of fear) he doesn't flinch when she pulls him up, wrapping one arm round him.

"Come on sweetie," she murmurs, "We have stuff to do," and she tugs him with her down the alley, her body pressed to his as if in a cruel mockery of her guarding him.

Together the two of them step out into the mass of people on the high street. Together they wind their way through the tired, poor, rich, hungry, gluttonous, huddled masses, slipping in unnoticed.

Nobody looks at them twice.

***

It seems almost normal.

"Coffee?" the waitress beams at them. Luke examines the table and the demon just smiles and shakes her head, not even glancing at the poor young girl.

Instead her gaze is on him, her red lips pursed. Luke can't quite remember when but she's found a pair of high heeled boots and a short sleeves jacket that she's slipped on over the black dress.

She passes for human. She passes for normal in a way that Luke never can.

There is nothing normal about this though.

"So," she props an elbow on the table, and rests her chin on her hand, staring at him hungrily like a piece of meat. "I was thinking someone a little older. You're only what...fifteen?"

"Seventeen," he replies, mumbling.

"Speak up, darlin'," she grins, and for a moment a shadow crosses her eyes. She shifts, head lifting to survey the small café. "Look at that one there," she breathes, eying up a man who has wondered over to the counter, "Look at how handsome he is, all well-defined and the hints of a beard. Don't you want to be like that? Go on…" she urges, as Luke finds himself gazing around at the various males in the room. "Pick one," she smiles, but it doesn't reach her dead eyes. "Go on sweetie." she repeats. He hates the mocking names but he doesn't dare protest.

Luke looks around, and he doesn't know. These are other people, people with their own lives, their own families. He thinks about his mother back home and feels guilty. He shouldn't, he deserves this after all. It's owed to him. It was his deal, and this is his choice.

Damn the consequences.

"Aw," she leans forwards as he still continues to hesitate. He hates being so weak. He's not weak, he's not a girl, and he's so, so close to that final leap. "Is the guilt getting to you? Are you fwightened?" she coos at him as if he's a child.

He swallows, looking around. There's a boy lounging outside, brown hair spiked up and ear plugs pounding music in his ears.

"That one? Oh good choice. I bet those dark eyes will look just bea-u-tiful, lit up gold with your little werewolf soul," she bares her teeth in a grin, and he startles, about to protest but she is already standing. She moves to stand next to him and leans over, and he freezes, as she presses her lips to his forehead. "One nice body," she whispers, "Coming riiight up," and she straightens, her sights set predatory on the male.

Luke doesn't know what to do. Numbly he watches as she saunters outside and heads straight for the guy. He takes a moment to examine him. He's about nineteen or so, wide shoulders and one foot propped against the window as he looks down at his phone.

She saunters up to him and the demon's smile cuts like glass. The guy startles, blinking at her as if in a daze. She leans close, perfect red lips next to his bobbing Adam's apple, and whispering something. One hand trails seductively over his chest and the male moves back, plastering himself to the window.

Just as quickly she draws back, and the poor guy follows her, already ensnared.

They vanish to one side and it takes a few seconds for Luke to scramble out of his seat. He walks into the waitress, sending her tray flying and not even bothering to apologise, he darts for the door.

Outside the street is bustling with people. He cranes his head, looking for the dark hair. He takes a whiff of the air, ducking between people as he moves along, following the route she and the guy had gone. Luke breathes in again, but all he can smell is a faint scent of sulphur, vanishing in a breeze, car fumes and the scents of hundreds and thousands of people overlaying it already.

He breaks into a run, shouldering into someone, but he ignores it, looking both ways. She can't have gone and left him like this. He needs her… she made him a deal…

He's beginning to panic, and he pauses standing in the middle of the pavement, spinning around and craning his neck for anything… a glimpse… a scent…

It should scare him how dependant he is on her already.

He stumbles over his own feet, and someone snaps at him to watch it. Cars thunder past, and he tries to stop hyperventilating this, to look at everything logically…

He doesn't even know what city he's in. Screw logic. The demon just left him without a word…

He spins around again and a hand clenches down on his wrist. He tries to pull away, but it tightens, unnaturally strong. Luke glances up, staring at the blonde man who steps closer, leaning in.

The werewolf takes a breath, preparing to cry out. Someone must surely notice he's being harassed by a random stranger...

"Don't scream, kid," he leans over Luke, and he is seconds away from doing just that when he taste the scent of brimstone on the man's breath.

"You're a demon," he gasps out.

"Observant," the guy chuckles, and his brown eyes flash, bleeding into a sick coloured yellow. "Don't worry. I'm not gonna' eat you." he jokes, before dragging him forwards, hand clasped tightly around his upper arm. "Might eat her though," his eyes are back to brown as he eyes up a passing child, barely four with soft blonde hair. "Soft and tender."

"Who are you?" Luke doesn't try to struggle.

"Names Belial," he says, head never staying still as he takes in the crowd, eyeing each passing person. "Oo, and she's pretty. Bet she screams. She looks like a screamer, doesn't she?" he gestures to a red-head chatting with friends. "I could make her scream. She probably begs too. Then I'd rip out her tongue and make her beg without a voice. They sing then. Or try to… Or maybe she's feisty. I like 'em feisty. I knew a feisty red-head once..." he considers. Then with a tug he pulls on Luke's arm, and the werewolf follows, obediently like a good little dog being led around on a leash.

"What happened to her?" Luke doesn't know why he asks.

"Still know her. Him. Her." he shrugs, "New meatsuit. Makes it's hard to keep a track of these things…" he leers at Luke, "That's what your issue is, right kiddo?" he grins, teeth bared in a snarl.

They cross the street and traffic screams. Belial doesn't pay it any attention, pace quick and focussed. Then like a distracted squirrel, he glances up again at the crowd and his eyes flash yellow, distracted. "Hey look, wanna be a pretty boy like that?" he nods towards a passing guy. "He's got nice hair. Nice lips too. Bet they'd look great wrapped around my cock. And his eyes. I used to collect eyes you know? Browns and blue and hazel… I always liked the green ones personally…" he pauses, considering something, "Should'a ripped the Michael Sword's eyes out," he reflects on something, "Ah well. I can find him down in Hell easily enough." and his pace increases, and Luke stumbles to keep up, almost tripping over his feet.

"I love people." Belial muses, "Well, actually I love their vices. Can't you smell it? Go on mutt, breath it in." His other hand comes around to paw at Luke's hair like a dog, "Love the scent of sin. All that lust and pride and greed… They all stink of it. They'll burn for it. They'll all burn. It's like…" he pauses to think, and then his train of through changes again, "Dante!" he exclaims, "Ever read Dante? All those levels going up and up and up and up and I fell down every one of 'em!" he seems proud of this. "But people… what I love about them is dragging them down. Each and every one of them think they're so high up on their little perches, but then you reach up and in the end…" he veers sharply to the right across the road, "Everyone falls," he laughs, and there's a maniacal edge to it that terrified Luke.

"Aww," the demon mocks, "Don't be scared, little girl." He winces, and yellow bleeds into his eyes like a wolf. "Oh, whoops. Isn't that mean to be boy… I can't tell..." His stare makes Luke feel exposed, open and vulnerable. Then he shoves Luke forwards into a building. It's some fancy high rise apartment, and the demon pushes him towards the lift. Luke tries not to feel claustrophobic as the doors slide shut and the demon leans over him, letting go of his arm to run a hand through his hair.

"You're kind of pretty for a boy,” his words are cruel and the demon knows it. He's barely spent five minutes dragging Luke around but he already knows his weakness. "Isn't that a shame? Luke, isn't it? Lukey, Lukey-boy. Pretty little Lucy," he laughs, voice sing-songy, "Luci, Luci, Luci," he repeats, as if it's some private joke. "Pretty name for a pretty boy," he grins, teeth flashing.

Luke finds strength from somewhere as he snaps at the guy, shoving him away. The demon rocks with the blow, stepping away smirking. "I'll be in the right body soon," he snaps, "She said she'd fix it."

Belial laughs, "Is that so?" and for a moment Luke doubts that she is going to keep her side of the bargain.

Then the doors to the lift slide open.

"That's right," the woman is standing waiting for them. Luke steps out of the lift towards her, but Belial pauses, his eyes flaring yellow as he tilts his neck to the side, almost resting it on one shoulder, before snapping it up and almost skipping forwards.

He gives her a two fingered salute. "Naamah," he greets her, ignoring the wolf almost entirely now, "You look…" he examines her, leaning back slightly, "Better than when I last saw you," he presses his lips together. "You found your…" he gestures vaguely to his head and the woman's smile is thin and lethal, but still sweet.

"Belial." she replies, calmly, "Where did she find the ingredients necessary to break your prison?"

He moves, strolling around her and poking at an ornamental object of sorts, leaning closer to peer at it. The glass shape distorts his image, and yellow eyes burn like hell fire. "When did you start rolling with the dogs?" his gaze slides up to where Luke stands, and he flinches slightly. "You into that sort of thing now?" the male demon adds, tutting, “To think you’d sink so _low_.”

She smiles sweetly, and reaches out, stroking Luke's cheek. He wants to flinch away, but he doesn't. "He's a long term investment."

Belial hums, chanting some sort of rhyme in that half-crazed tone. "A hunting we will go, a hunting we will go, Heigh ho, the dairy-o, a hunting we will go, We'll catch a fox and put him in a box, And then we'll let him go," he stops, shaking his head, "Except you caught yourself a wolf here, Naamah." he leans forwards, whispering in an exaggerated stage whisper, "Don't get bitten."

Naamah's hand drops from Luke's face, her nails bright red and it reminds Luke of the blood that had been covering her arms the other night. She stalks forwards and Belial's head drops, chin almost to his chest and he looks up at her, eyes golden, swirled through with black. "How long is it?" and her voice drips poison, "Since you've been topside last?" and her smile is lethal.

"You'd know, wouldn't you?" he licks his upper lip. Everything about these two is unnatural. Not human. Belial is sassy and downright crazy, while she's all sickly sweet, cooing and crooning like everyone she talks too is a kid that deserves being patronised.

Right now though her tone is condescending and triumphant, "See last I heard… You haven't been topside in a looooong, long time. Didja' vessel give permission?"

"I don't need _permission,_ sweetheart," and he lunges forwards like a lion, hand around her neck.

She smirks. "Oh don't be angry," she flutters her eyelashes at the yellow-eyes. Luke stands still, watching the two of them, riveted.

"Don't. _Test_. Me," he snarls, whispering and calmly stating each word. "I’m older than you. I was there when Lilith was born. And she was the first."

"Was," she whispers, and Belial drops her throat, lounging back and stuffing his hands in his pockets like a teenager. She continues, licking her lips, "Lilith's dead."

He shrugs, "So?"

She grins at him, and then spins around and paces towards Luke. She motions him forwards and he warily moves towards her. She wraps one arm around his shoulder, pulling him towards the crazy yellow-eyed demon. "Belial's going to help you get a new body," she whispers into one ear.

"Will it…" Luke feels stupid asking, but he trusts this demon over the other guy, who is currently rolling up his sleeves and grinning like a wolf at him. "Will it hurt?"

Belial shakes his head. Naamah also pats him reassuringly. "It won't hurt," she promises.

Her hands tighten on his shoulders and he wonders why, when the yellow-eye, without warning, steps forwards and plunges his hand into Luke's chest.

Luke just has enough time to see the yellow eyes flare and to think that this really, really hurts.

The demons lied. He guesses that he should have expected that.

Demons lie. They do that.

Then blackness overcomes him.


	5. Take Me Under

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I fix Sam and Dean's relationship. An un-bury them (about time too).  
> I'd love to hear what people are thinking about this? Or just that you're reading. That works too.

It is dark.

That is the first Sam is aware of when he opens his eyes. There isn't a single crack of light to be seen and the blackness is heavy, like a thick cloth choking down around him.

It is warm too, and he is sweating in the cramped space. He shifts slightly, and a residue complaint runs up his nerves from his arms. He lets out a low moan, stiff and bruised. He feels weak, like he's gone three rounds with a werewolf, and he's just as battered.

He twitches his fingers, and apart from an ache in his arms and a horrible draining emotion, he's as functional as he's going to get for a man buried alive.

He remembers flashes, from drawing the devil's trap on the floor above, right through to where it all went sideways and Abaddon pulled him down and pinned both him and Dean to the walls.

Well now Sam can add being crucified to the list of the various situations he and Dean have survived. He shifts again, reaching out for his brother, and finds him almost immediately. His legs are tangled up with Dean's, and he can't move his arms without pressing against Dean's chest. They fell together, both on their side and pressed against one another.

The only reassuring thing about this was that he can feel his brother's heart beat next to him. He shifts slightly away from Dean, and thankfully his legs move, not trapped by anything. He reaches out, and it's cramped, only about half a metre high but thankfully wide enough that he can stretch out his legs, reassuring himself that nothing is broken.

But Dean still lies unmoving, and in sudden panic Sam presses against the warm body of his brother, feeling the pulse.

"No, don't leave me," he begs, and shakes what he thinks is Dean's shoulder.

There's a low moan of pain and shifting as his brother moves. Sam winces as he feels the warm body shift away from him.

"Dean?" he asks into the darkness.

"'m not…" his brother coughs weakly, "Sammy… no… not coffin..."

Sam chews on his lip, and tastes blood and dirt. "Coffin? Did you… Dean, are you okay?"

There's a sudden lurching and one of Dean's flailing arms hits him in the chest and he gasps, winded, before grabbing a hold of his brother and trying to stop him from destroying their little safety hole. Dean continues to struggle weakly, "I'm not… gotta' get out… fucking coffin again… dammit it Castiel you weren't supposed to leave me buried...fuck fuck fuck…"

"Dean!" Sam shouts, voice hoarse and his brother stills slightly. Sam swallows, his throat dry. He'd never thought before, that Dean must have had to dig his way out of that cheap pine box back in Illinois.

For several moments Dean's breathing is heavy, on the fringe of another panic attack. "Sam?" he asks instead. "I...what happened?"

"Don't you remember?" Sam probes.

"Uh...Yellow-eyed demon claws his way out of hell and possessing that poor guy." Dean mumbles, "Then he… no… nothing." Sam knows his brother is shaking his head with short, sharp shakes.

"Belial." Sam tries to get used to the name. "Isn't he… He's one of the angels that fell with Lucifer?" he remembers. They'd pulled up the name back when they were still trying to work out what the hell Castiel was, trawling through lists of demons powerful enough to pull a soul out of hell.

"Who fucking cares?" Dean's voice is weak, and he moves slightly and then stops with a sharp hiss of pain.

"Are you okay?" Sam reaches forwards, fingers finding soft skin. His hands are slapped away.

"Dude, stop feeling up my face," and he can feel Dean's warm breath on his skin. "I… wait a minute…" His older brother shifts, and then lets out a triumphant 'hah'.

There is a metallic click and suddenly light flares. Sam flinches, and then blinks spots from his eyes, focussing on the lighter in Dean's hands.

"You don't even smoke," Sam tries to sound disapproving, but it's just pure relief as his gaze finds his brother's, able to see at last. Above him, long floorboards have fallen across, and between the gaps soil trickles down. It's the only thing that saved them, but Sam is used to thin luck and relaxes slightly for the time being.

Dean's face is pained, and one arm is pressed to the ground unmoving. He lies on the same shoulder, and so his whole body is tense, his right hand free to hold the wavering flame.

The light glints off something metallic and Sam is suddenly aware that the blades that had been in his arm had been twisted free, leaving the wounds to stop bleeding, at least for now. For his brother, one of the blades had been torn out, but in his left arm…

"Holy fuck Dean," Sam hisses, leaning over slightly to see better where the silver knife is buried into his brother's arm. Dean shifts slightly, cursing.

"I know," Dean hisses, teeth clenched.

"I'm gonna'… I'm gonna' have to pull it out," Sam looks up at his brother, who just rolls his eyes.

"Well?” Dean demands, "Get on with it then." he snaps, and looks up towards the makeshift ceiling of their prison.

Sam pressed Dean's arm down, and with the other hand grasps the blade. "Relax," he instructs.

Dean huffs, "Just get on with it," he snaps, and Sam feels the muscle relaxing, and without waiting he draws out the knife.

"Fuck!" Dean growls, arm flinching away. There is a steady trickle of blood that wells up, and Sam tears off the bottom part of his shirt to act as a makeshift bandage. "What happened to three, two, one, bitch?" Dean asks him.

The younger Winchester almost doesn't catch Dean's attempt at their old trade in insults. He doesn't think they've done that since… since Dean had made his deal. He let out a long breath, and spots his brother's glazed look.

Dean's already given up, he realises, pressing down on the wound. "Dean," he snaps, "Stay with me bro'." he turns it into an instruction; faintly reminisce of their father and his brother blinks at him.

"Why?" Dean's voice is weak, "S'not like you're going to save me."

Sam knew those words were going to come around bite him in the ass. He swallows down the words that spill out to justify why he said that, the whole spiel about self-sacrifice taking them around and round in circles and how he had to be the one to step back, because he knew that Dean never would. Instead he glares at his brother. "We'll get out," and it's a promise, determined and gritty and Sam knows that he's going to keep it.

"Well at least if we don't there's no need to dig a grave," Dean jokes, with a weak, broken smile. Sam hates it. Dean doesn't shut up. "After all apart from maybe Cas, it's not like anyone's gonna' care much about us."

"Who knows?" Sam banters back, because if it makes Dean feel better he's play along, "Crowley might miss us."

"Miss the nicknames, maybe." Dean grins, "Bullwinkle," he teases.

"Shut up," Sam hisses, and the lighter flame flickers. He frowns, "Is that going to die on us?" he asks.

The older Winchester shakes his head, "No. It's new. Bought it at the last convenience store we stopped in."

Sam breathed out, realising suddenly how warm it is, and how they're trapped underground, with a limited supply of oxygen. He feels his pulse racing. "We're running out of air," he tells Dean, "We… there's not enough oxygen."

His brother lets out a laugh that's bitter and weak, "Well that sucks. Damn demon didn't even have the decency to kill us. Left us to die in what's turning out to be a fucking chick-flick moment."

Sam shifts up onto his elbow, peering at the ceiling and looking for a way out, a way to push aside the rubble and whatever else is sitting on top of them.

"We're gonna' be myths," Dean muses, slumping down. "The brothers who messed everything up and then saved the world. Hopefully they remember I'm the hot one. And that you're a freaking girl."

"Dean, shut up!" Sam hisses, not liking Dean's train of thought, "We're not going to die." He drops back down heavily onto his shoulder. He thinks he might have pulled a muscle because it jars slightly. "Pray to Cas," he suggests.

One eyebrow arches, unimpressed. "The dude is at least three states away. And his pimp ride doesn't travel faster than an old lady on a mobility scooter. He's like freaking Brian Snail."

Sam opens his mouth and then pauses. "Brian." he asks voice flat. "You've seen 'The Magic Roundabout'?"

Dean frowns and there's a pause. "Yeah I...wait… _you've_ seen it?"

There's an awkward silence.

Sam clears his throat, forgetting the last part of that conversation ever happened. "Well at least he'd get here eventually. He might cremate us, in case we end up haunting this place."

His brother scoffs and looks at him, "You're telling me that after all this you're going to say 'no' to your reaper?"

The younger brunette doesn't answer.

"Okay, here's a plan," Dean suggests, "We take this off…" and he shifts his left arm slightly, and Sam can see where the blood has stained the bandage, smell it even in the confined space. "And you use the blood to call Crowley and get him to rescue us."

"Dean, no!" Sam hisses, "I… you can't survive losing more blood. And why don't we do it the other way around?"

Dean's smile is thin and his voice is flat, "Sam, out of the two of us, you're better off. You're more likely to make it out."

Hazel eyes roll towards the ceiling where soil trickles through. "I want to punch you right now," Sam says calmly, "Stop talking like this. Like you want to die. It makes me feel like you want to get away from me. Like you want me to be all alone."

“Not this again,” Dean growls, and there is tension in the air.

“What’s that meant to mean?” Sam challenges.

"So you’d be alone. BooHoo.” Dean glares at him. Sam can feel the emotions in the gaze. “How do you think I feel then, since that's all you ever go on about?" the blonde hisses and Sam winces internally, "You don't shut up about it, and then you have the fucking gall to blame me for trying to save you.” Sam opens his mouth to interject but Dean continues before he can, “And yes, it was selfish. But considering all the crap we've been through, I'm allowed to be a little selfish, because Sam, if I lose you… then what the fuck do I have left to live for?"

It feels like a blow to Sam's chest. "We always do this," he says quietly, since it seems that yes, they are going to do this here. "Something happens to one of us and then the other runs around and tries to fix it. It always comes at a cost and each time it gets higher and higher… Dean we're going around and round in circles."

"You say that," Dean murmurs, "But it's not exactly like when we try to step out of it that it works. Jess. Lisa. Ben. Amelia."

"Don't blame Lisa and Ben on me." Sam tells him. Dean meets his gaze and suddenly he wishes he hadn't said that, because he knows that Dean doesn't blame him, has never blamed him even though it was him (admittedly without a soul) who had dragged Dean back in.

Dean blames himself.

He always does.

Then again Sam knows Jess's death is his fault. Just as his chance with Amelia was thrown out of the window by him. He still wonders if he'd gone back to that motel whether she would have been there.

"There are always going to be casualties," Sam continues, "And one day we're both gonna' have to face the fact that one of us is going to be added to that fucking long list of dead. And then we're going to have to step back. And those trials… that was my turn. I was fucking ready Dean, I could have… done something with my life. Then you took that away, because you couldn't let me go."

"You're a hypocrite, you know that?" Dean glares at him, "Don't save me. But don't leave me. Do you want me to be alone, with absolutely no-one?"

"We're not dying now," Sam says, determinedly.

"Maybe it's 'my time'," Dean quotes Sam's own words back to him.

Sam shakes his head. "It isn't. You're going to get out of here and we're going to keep going. Just like always."

His brother shifts, holding his wounded arm closer to his chest. "That was what the trials were meant to be. That's why we agreed that you did them. Because there was meant to a light at the end. Then when we realise there isn't, and that we couldn't come out of it… I did what I had to Sam, and I'm never going to be sorry about that. Don't make me apologise for saving your life. Don't ever make me apologise for that. 'Cause I'm not sorry."

Much in the same way that Dean had curled in a little bit to protect his arm, his argument had curled in to protect himself.

Sam didn't have the heart to break it down. Not when his brother had a point. Not when he could hardly accuse Dean of being selfish and unable to let go off his brother, because when push came to shove…

Sam couldn't let go of Dean either.

He slumps slightly onto his back, and he hears Dean's breathing slow next to him.

"You aren't going to complain?" Dean asks him.

"You're a jerk, you know that?" Sam whispers.

"Uh…" Dean pauses. "So we're good?" he asks, almost hesitantly.

Sam hums, "We're good," he says. There is still stuff to be talked through, and the list is a mile long or so, but he doesn't blame Dean any more. Not that he ever really did but he'd been hurt and any trust there had been ripped away, at least now there was a new foundation built that they could work with.

"That's good, bitch," Dean sounds almost sleepy.

"Jerk," he answers instinctively and then smiles to himself. He stares up, planning for how to get out. He examines the floorboard, bowing slightly under the weight of soil and debris. There are about six of them spread out across him, and running the same direction as his body. His gaze wanders to the edge, blinking at the edge of their little cavernous prison. It's mostly rubble stacked on top of itself, but there's a thin gap of darkness at the edge. He shuffles closer and sticks his hand in it, waving it about.

He half-expects something to grab him and pull him through, and he is relieved that the monster movies were wrong. He stretches forwards, encountering only soil walls and a gap that goes on. He leans back considering. He could probably fit his shoulders through there.

"I think I've got a route out," he says, trying to sit up a little more, but it cramps his neck. He rolls forwards instead onto his belly, and his shoulder gives a disapproving twinge. "What do you say? It's now or never."

There is no answer, and Sam glances sideways towards where Dean's eyes have slipped closed, breathing barely noticeable.

There a hollow pit in his stomach, and he remembers endless Tuesday's, that terrible Wednesday, and then again that night with the hell hounds.

Dean's right. He's a fucking hypocrite.

He shoves Dean, making sure to hit his injured arm. Dean jolts, eyes fluttering open weakly. His green eyes look gold in the candle light. "Wha' S'mmy?" he asks, blearily.

"We're getting out." Sam tells him, "Now."

Dean's eyes slide closed again and Sam shoves him. "Up." he barks it out like an order. "Get up Dean."

His brother forces his eyes open, and Sam grabs the lighter, as Dean uses his right hand to manoeuvre himself up until his head hits the ceiling.

It's warm in there, too warm, and Dean's eyes are still glazed. His blood loss is worse than Sam's own, and vaguely Sam wonders if this reminds Dean of hell, or waking up in his coffin alive, buried underground.

He eases himself to the edge of the cavern, and the knife he had pulled from Dean's arms digs into where he had stuffed it into his belt. He motions for Dean to move next to him and slips his hands into the gap, finding the edge of the section of floorboards.

"What 'ya doin'?" Dean slurs slightly, shifting closer to him. Sam grasps hold of his brother's collar and pulls him closer. "Woah," Dean mumbles, "I always knew you were a cuddler."

Sam hits him in the shoulder. Hard.

It has the desired effect as with a hiss Dean rolls over, until he is leaning on his elbows, glaring at Sam. The glare barely masks the pained grimace from the sudden movement. Meanwhile Sam sits up as best he can in the cramped space, and reaches for the gap above them. There are floorboards and then fresh soil, soil that can be dug through and shouldn’t be more than a few feet, otherwise they wouldn’t be lying there alive, they would have already been crushed to death.

"Hold your breath," he warns Dean. He takes a few seconds to check that Dean does that before flicking the lighter out, pocketing it, and then yanking the floorboard down.

All at once the soil pours down, and Sam snaps away another section of the floor. Their mock ceiling broken, the roof is beginning to cave in, and Sam struggles to pull him and Dean through sideways to where there was a makeshift tunnel. Dean flails and begins to shift himself so Sam lets go, concentrating on getting the soil out of the way as he practically swims upwards.

There's a long moment of scrabbling and choking on the thick blackness, and Sam thinks that this was a stupid idea, when his hands break through into a gap.

His hand flails for something to grasp onto, and he claws his way forwards in a manner similar to the demon. His limbs feel heavy and he wants to breath, his lungs are burning and his eyes are pressed tightly shut, and for a moment he thinks it would be so easy to just stop, to just give up and greet Death like an old friend.

Something clenches around his arm and pulls, and he feels himself moving upwards. His head breaks through the earth and he sucks in a heaving breath. It's dark, but not pitch black, and Sam doesn't know how they did it, but his instincts were right. The gap he'd found led right to the surface, and once the floorboards were out of the way he had successfully pulled himself out.

He heaves up, his shoulders breaking through. His right shoulder still hurts, and his arms throb painfully. The right one has started to bleed, he thinks, but it's hard to tell because he's so covered in soil that if there is blood, it's hard to see the red amongst the brown.

With a final pull he kicks his way out, and rolls onto his back, sucking in great gulps of air.

Oh crap.

He lurches upright, muscles protesting as he turns to the hole he had crawled out of, his mind only focussed on one thought.

He dives right back in without thinking, hands sifting through soil and rubble and for once he's thankful he's so large, when he finds soft fabric and pulls.

Dean really needs to lay off the burgers, he thinks, wrapping his arm around Dean's and rearing backwards. Dean's head breaks the soil, and Sam leans forwards, brushing soil from his brother's face and mouth.

Breath dammit, Sam thinks, and shifts Dean onto his back, listening for his breathing. It's there, and it's faint, and he pinches Dean's nose and breathes into Dean's mouth, trying to get some oxygen into his brother.

Said brother splutters, eyes fluttering. Sam leans back, slumping in relief as green eyes narrow at him, weary and fatigued but so, so alive. It was the best thing Sam had ever seen.

"Were you kissing me?" Dean asks, and his focus drifts for a few seconds before refocussing on Sam. His breathing is still weak, and now Sam sees why, spots the great bruises around Dean's throat from where Abaddon had a weird fascination with strangling his brother. No wonder his brother keeps slipping away with his bruised windpipe.

Sam can barely hear him, it's a hoarse whisper, weak and barely there but Dean's still alive, and he collapses to the floor in relief.

"Dude, not cool," Dean mumbles, and Sam listens in relief to his brother's steadier, even breaths.

"Thought we were goners," Sam mumbles.

"How d'we get out?"

"I pulled free… I… someone pulled me free," Sam tells him, the last bit a wondrous whisper of relief, but Dean's not really listening anymore, his eyes closed tiredly. He’s not asleep, his breathing is too heavy, but he seems to be savouring the taste of air, so Sam leaves him to it. He looks up, hoping to see whoever it was who had dragged him out… had there actually been anyone there in the first place. He’s half convinced he’s imagined it all.

The room is empty and in the back of Sam's mind, he wonders if there was anybody there to start with.

Or maybe he just doesn't want to die after all.

He rolls over and grins at Dean, "Belial's mine," he leers at his brother. "You got the last yellow-eyed demon. This one is aaall mine."

Dean shows him his middle finger. “Bite me,” he mumbles, “You got the white-eyes.”

Sam laughs. “You’re gonna have to race me then,” he says, “Since Abaddon seems to be your game and all.”

The smile that flits across Dean’s face isn’t pleasant, but considering Sam is currently plotting the various ways he can kill the new yellow-eyed bastard on the block, he probably has a similar ‘let’s kill it’ grin on his face, made slightly more hysterical and maniacal by the dirt and blood smeared all over them.

“Dude.” Sam laughs, “Holy crap we probably look like zombies. Ya’ hear that? Zombies?”

“You’re freaking high,” Dean is probably rolling his eyes, but Sam has relaxed back onto the floor, staring at the sky through the hole in the roof.

For the first time in a while he feels like they're back in the game.

Together. Just as they should be.


	6. Echoes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to Beacon Hills! And Scott isn't the only one freaking out. As much as I love Scott and Stiles, this story actually doesn't favour one or the other. Allison and Lydia get their fair share of plot too.  
> It's also self-beta'd so any mistakes are my fault. Feel free to point them out - I'd be very grateful!

The school car park is crowded. Kids pushing bicycles, with bags slung over one shoulder and heads turned, not looking where they walk as they chat to friends. People run out, chasing after footballs and in a rush to get in before the bell rings.  It's a nightmare, and Allison slams her foot down on the brake for the fifth time as someone steps out in front of the car without even looking. They don't even notice as she jerks to a halt, and Lydia's expression in the passenger seat is perfectly poised in distaste.

Part of her kind of hopes that one day one of these stupid kids gets run over, because it would serve them right. She spins the wheel, slipping into a free spot. Half-expecting something to crunch under the car tyres, she sinks back in relief as the engine cuts out without any issues. Lydia glances sideways at her.

"You okay?" she asks, and Allison nods.

"Just tired," she says, and reaches into the back seat to grab her bag. The passenger door opens as Lydia clambers out, and then closes softly with a click. Allison pauses for only a moment before following.

The buses are pulling up and in the distance she spots the green bike of Scott’s, the boy himself just a dark figure leaning over while a lanky Stiles tries to explain something with his usual wide, exaggerated arm gestures. Once she would have gone over, and greeted Scott with a smile and a kiss, but now she just watches, strangely at peace with the distance between them.

"Oh no," Lydia sighs, arms crossed. She leans back against the car slightly, observing the approach of a familiar figure. Allison can't see Lydia's expression, her back is turned to her, but she knows her friend is pouting, unsure whether to play coy or dismissive.

Aidan grins and it reminds Allison of a wolf. Not surprising really. She's guessing it's Aidan, because she can't really tell the pair apart, but considering the other twin is currently lounging around Danny and the pair are exchanging meaningful eye contact she thinks she's pretty safe in her assumption.

Lydia has an uncanny ability to tell the pair apart, and now she uses that to tilt her head sideways, in preparation for some twisted flirtation that she will probably end up throwing back at Aidan's face before walking away, leaving him staring after her.

"I'll see you up at school.”

"See you," Lydia waves a hand dismissively, and for a moment Allison worries about leaving Lydia alone with a werewolf, but she knows that if anyone is going to come out of this situation worse off, it won't be her friend.

Lydia is a force of nature.

Allison sighs, tucking a strand of dark hair behind one ear as Lydia strolls off to chat to Aidan. She straightens the bag strap on her shoulder and takes the path up towards school. The usual noises of a typical morning at Beacon Hills High is muted, almost as if she’s hearing it through water, but then again, her thoughts are probably elsewhere.

She doesn’t think twice about it.

“Hello?”

She doesn’t pay much attention to the voice. It’s almost a whisper, a child talking to someone else. Someone shoves past her and she pauses, affronted, and that’s when she hears it again.

“Will you help us? Why won’t anyone help us?”

Allison stops, and she turns around, but there is nothing but the bustle of students.

She turns and keeps walking.

"Hello?" Allison freezes at the voice as it speaks again. She’s barely made it three more steps, "Can you help us?"

She spins around with all her hunter instincts blazing because she had heard nobody approach. The other students fade into the background as she searches again for the disembodied voice and for all intents and purposes there should be no-one there.

She's right. There isn't.

She stares at the empty path in puzzlement, but the voice says nothing more. She turns around.

And freezes. In front of her is a young girl, dark hair plastered to her face as if wet. Her skin is pale and water drips from her clothes. "He's coming." The voice whispers, and the child's lips barely move but Allison knows it is her.

Around her students move, pushing forwards without care, and nobody glances twice at the child. Allison is enraptured with the dark hair that is plastered to the girl’s neck, the slight tilt of the head and the pleading, begging eyes that say a hundred things, even while the girl barely whispers.

She takes a step back. The child blinks at her, so, so pale and so, so, dead. "Who are you?" Allison demands. "What... what happened to you?"

"He came for me," the child whispers, and she steps forwards after Allison. As she does the colour seeps from her form and her hair bleaches blonde and her eyes grow pale. "He's coming."

"Who is?" Allison asks, unsure whether she should be comforting or attacking this broken creature.

The child just gazes at her with those mournful eyes, "We're so cold." She whispers, and her form flickers, "We're so, so cold, won't you help us?"

"I... yes... what...?" Allison shakes her head and with a terribly certainty stops, because this child in front of her drips water but leaves no footprints. She stands in the light yet casts no shadow.

There is nobody there.

Nobody living at any rate.

"He is coming back," the child is mournful, "Our star is returning. And we shall all burn." Then she opens her mouth and lets out a piercing scream.

***

He drifts in and out of varying states of being that currently he can’t put a name to, and later he won’t remember. At times it is humid, almost too hot as if he is walking through a tropical rainforest, and later he is too cold, icy as if all the heat has been drained away.

That’s okay for the most part. It doesn’t hurt that way.

Then there are the memories that flash through him, shattered fragments like broken glass that cut him, and they hurt. They tear and slice him apart. He hears Nate’s scream, sees Luke’s panicked face, listens to Lexi’s begging whispers.

The demon laughs in his dreams, and it’s just like that night, where her voice grates like sandpaper, beautiful but completely and utterly deadly.

Her eyes are empty black hollow voids, and in them Jethro sees oblivion. He sees hell fire and burning ice. He sees broken wings and charred feathers.

He sees eternity. He sees the present.

And the present burns.

Jethro lies silently in agony that wears him down, until it feels like he’s run a hundred miles or so, and then he slips down again, to the cold and the heat and the empty nothingness of everlasting dreams.

***

Stiles’ hands tremble, as he trails behind Scott into the school. "I don't get it dude… first I'm seeing strange symbols everywhere, and now you too?" He’s freaked, but he’s still managing to take this all in his stride. They’ve seen weirder, right? Killer lizards, his best friend turning a little furry… and how the hell had he not yet made a ‘time of the month’ joke yet? It’s a wasted opportunity in his mind.

So yeah, Stiles isn’t exactly terribly worried because in terms of things they had had to deal with recently, seeing weird symbols wasn’t at the top of his list. In fact he didn’t even think it made the top ten.

Not that he actually had a list written out anywhere or anything. That would just be weird.

His best friend stumbles ahead of him, and for a werewolf Scott lacks a certain amount of grace sometimes. Stiles wonders how Scott managed to even become an alpha, and then mentally scoffs, because even if Scott might not be the stereotypical big, bad alpha that Derek tried and failed to be, he inspires loyalty and hope and that’s really all a pack needs in a leader.

Said fluffy wolf fumbles with his locker key, jabbing it in the lock as if he is potentially trying to stab the metal. His friend's eyes flicker around at anything but Stiles’ searching gaze. They’ve always been open with each other, but admitting to potential insanity?

Stiles just hopes they can have neighbouring rooms when they finally end up in the mental institution.

"I looked it up," Stiles rests one shoulder against his locker, pressing closer to Scott than was strictly necessary.  But in this school he never knows who might be listening in. "That pentagram I saw on the road? With all the squiggles in it?"

"What about it?" Scott's voice is calm and carefully measured.

Stiles drops his backpack and crouches down beside it. He pulls out sheaves of paper. Half of it is his thick chemistry coursework that hasn’t been handed in since their last chemistry teacher got gutted, garrotted and generally killed by an insane evil druid.

He tosses it down on the floor, out of the way, shoving the google image symbols in front of Scott's nose. The werewolf finally succeeds in pulling open his locker and uses that as a shield to peer at the various signs. "So what do they mean?” he squints at them, as Stiles waves them under his nose. “Are they connected to the Nemeton?"

"This?" Stiles pokes the paper with his finger, "This is all satanic shit."

"Wait…" Scott paws the paper away from his face, fingers clenching the paper and he rifles through it, before pulling a page out, "That…" he gestures at the triangular symbol.  "I've seen that before… what is it?"

Stiles splays his hands out in a ‘I have no clue’ gesture, "Uh… something satanic. To do with the devil."

On some sixth sense well-honed by years of shouting in their ear during whispered conversations, and one time when the guy had hit them with books on the back of the head in class once, the pair stop talking, just in time for Coach to walk past, barking insults at where Greenberg's bag has split open, sending books and pencils rolling out across the corridor.

"The world hates us," Stiles sighs, and grabs his bag, shoving the print-outs back in it. He makes wild gestures for where his chemistry lies on the floor, not glancing down. He wishes he could have his own super powers, because telekinesis would be really awesome.

Someone shoves them at him. He stares at them in surprise, because he’s pretty sure he didn’t manage to move them with the powers of his mind. He pouts, disappointed and thanks his friend instead for taking the five seconds that it would have taken him to pick them up, "Thanks Scott," he mumbles.

"What?" Scott glances over his shoulder at Stiles, from where he is currently trying to peer either really closely at Isaac, or around the beta and outside at something through the window. His locker door is closed and he’s moved away, nowhere near Stiles’ vicinity.

Yet the papers someone had shoved at him crinkle in his hands, and his breath catches. He looks up. Lounging against the lockers, his arms crossed, and form pale a ghost grins at him.

Stiles never quite expected a ghost to look so life-like, but he knows it’s a ghost. He’s not ever seen one before, but there’s nothing else this can be, because the guy standing before him is well, and truly dead.

Matt flays his fingers in a little wave. "Hey'a Stiles," he smirks.

***

"What is it?" Lydia asks, "What's wrong?" and she stares uncannily straight towards the spot where the dead child stands, mouth wide open shrieking.

Allison spins around, and the sound is gone, just a ringing in her ears which is replaced by the school bell, screaming at her. She looks back, but she already knows that the child is gone, the paving slab empty and bone dry.

"I… nothing…" she stops, blinking and she shakes her head a little. "There was someone there," she whispers, and Lydia steps closer. She reaches out, and Allison feels one hand rest on her shoulder, but it's disconnected, as if she's not really aware of it.

"Was there?" Lydia keeps Allison facing her, and their gazes meet.

The hunter looks away. "I'm sure of it," she nods, "She… it was a little girl. She was soaking wet…" she pulls away from Lydia's grasp and takes two measured steps forwards and then spins. The air around her is cold. "She was right, here." she whispers, and her terrified gaze meets Lydia's. "She said he was coming. That he was coming back."

***

"Holy crap," Stiles drops his bag, stumbling backwards. Matt watches his with cold dead eyes, head tilting to one side as if sizing up a piece of prey. “Fuck.” He swears, and he searches for some other word to sum it up, but can’t think of any, “Fuck.” He repeats again, because nothing is processing beyond the dead guy.

Scott spins to face him, "Dude, what?" he hisses, looking slightly alarmed by the swearing.

Matt Daehler chuckles, straightening up, "Can't you guess, Stiles?" he asks, shaking his head, and then leans forward in a whisper, but the effect is negated as Stiles throws himself backwards to the other side of the corridor, "You're going crazy," he breaths. People passing glance at Stiles strangely and Scott grabs onto him, his hands digging into Stiles arm. He can’t take his eyes off Matt, and subconsciously he is aware of his breath fogging in front of him. The air is cold, and Matt’s body is pale, like it’s been whitewashed on an old photograph.

Matt’s been dead for months. A year, if not more. Stiles doesn’t exactly count these things.

He blinks. Matt's form flickers, like a badly tuned old television. Then his shape blurs and comes back into focus and the dark-haired dead teen grins. It's that same, psycho kind of smile he had given them before pointing a gun at them and shooting Scott. "You don't see him?" Stiles whispers, tearing his gaze away from Matt to meet his friend’s worried expression. “Please to God, Scott, tell me you can see him,” he whispers.

Scott turns, obviously following Stiles' gaze. Stiles glances back to where Matt had been standing, casually slouched with his hands in his pockets.

“See who?” Scott asks, and Stiles’ stomach plummets.

Matt is gone.

There is no-one there.

***

"I'm seeing dead people?" Allison paces back and forth across an empty classroom. Isaac peers through the door and then moves over to her.

"Why do you say she was dead?" he asks, "You just said it was a little girl.”

"She was drowned," Allison snaps, and Isaac nods, because yeah, that means the girl was probably dead.

Lydia has one hand to her temple, fingers pressing so hard that they have turned white. She shakes her head, "I'm not…" she frowns, "I'm not getting anything." Her shoulders straighten and she looks up at them, worried. "It's all quiet."

"Too quiet." Isaac mutters.

Lydia blinks. "Allison, can you hit your boyfriend for me?"

"He's not my…"

"She's not my…"

Lydia grins, "That's cute." she says, her voice all too knowing. "But can we get back to the dead kid?"

"I miss conversations that didn't start with 'can we get back to the dead kid'," Isaac sighs, perching on a desk, hands resting palm down on the wood as he leans back onto them, feet kicking slightly back and forth. Lydia shoots him a glare which is actually slightly terrifying.

"Uh...guys?" Allison's voice prompts both Isaac and Lydia to turn to face her. She is staring at the blackboard, but her gaze is focussed on something just in front of it. "Please tell me you can see that?"

"See what?" Lydia whispers.

***

It's not the child this time. Instead it's a woman with long hair and pretty dark lashes. The chalk is rubbing off on her hands, making them pale and white. Her back is to Allison as the huntress starts towards the front of the classroom.

Chalk squeaks against the blackboard, a horrible grating sound that sends a chill up her spine. Her eyes are transfixed on the female who is slightly older than her, probably late twenties.

Dust floats in the air, caught in the sun beams as the pattern is traced out. The woman starts at the top and brings the chalk around in an anti-clockwise loop. Once she reaches the starting point she brings it down at a sharp angle, and then across. For another three lines she continues this until once again the top point is reached.

A star is drawn, five sides and residing inside a circle. The chalk makes a protesting whine as the woman automatically begins to draw it again, over and over on top of the previous. Her movements are slow and mechanical, as if she is merely a puppet being controlled by strings.

"Hello?" Allison speaks up. It feels like she is the only one in the room when Isaac steps into her field of vision, grabbing her hands.

The scratch of the chalk stops and she shakes off the beta werewolves hands. "What are you seeing?" Isaac asks.

"There's someone by the black board," Allison whispers. Almost as if she heard herself mentioned the woman begins to turn, and her whole image violently flickers. Her movements shift jerkily, as if on fast-forward and then suddenly slow as Allison, for the first time, takes in the woman's face.

Brown eyes smile at her. "You let me die." She doesn't say it. Instead she mouths it, but the silence is almost worse.

Then her imager flickers and she vanishes. The chalk drops to the ground with a small clatter.

Kate Argent is gone.

***

It’s been four days since they first started seeing the ghosts.

Already Stiles has managed to push it to the back of his mind, because the last thing he needs is for someone to see him talking to thin air. His fingers twitch, full of pent up energy and back home on his desk, paper sits piled high, full of research and everything and anything he can dig up about ghosts. It’s not been much good, and he’s going to drag Scott and maybe Lydia to find some decent books in the town centre sometime.

He feels a stupid and guilty sense of relief that it’s not just him. Scott’s finger wavers as he points to something outside on the curb. If Stiles squints he can sort of see the air shimmer.

It had taken a while to conclude that Stiles wasn’t the only one going mad. They had yet to confirm anything with Allison, since Scott seemed reluctant to approach her, but the sacrifice was the only thing that joined the dots.

“Where?" Stiles squints at the shimmery air. Maybe, he concludes, the ghosts are just not on the right frequency to be seen by him as well as Scott.

"There, in front of the bushes!" Scott tries to explain, but there are about five different sets of bushes outside and his directions don’t help.

"The one with the pink buds?" Stiles tries to narrow it down.

The air over his shoulder is cold and he stiffens, as Matt leans over, "No, he means the one with the yellow roses growing in front and the rainbow that ends there. Yes, the one with the pink flowers, idiot." The ghost’s tone is chiding and sarcastic and completely unappreciated. Matt shows up at random and annoying times, always just when Stiles turns around, or when he thinks he’s totally alone and he looks up to see the pale dead figure leering at him.

He felt sorry for Allison, and wishes he could have gotten a different ghost to haunt him…

Maybe he shouldn't go there.

"So she's just standing there?" he asks Scott.

His friend stares out, "It's as if she's waiting for someone. She was there yesterday. And the day before. And… the whole past week she's just been… I thought she was waiting for the bus but… if she’s a ghost…" he stops and gazes mournfully at her, looking saddened as if the ghost girl is leaking emotions or something. Stiles doesn’t think that’s the case because he hasn’t had an urge to start killing anybody, although maybe it’s just because Scott’s part animal, and animals can sense this sort of thing.

"When is it ever someone waiting for a bus?" Matt picks at something under his nails and Stiles grits his teeth. "Hey, it could have been worse." the dead teenager grins.

Stiles doesn't ask how, but Matt must hear it anyway.

"You know how," he leers, and then with a static flicker his form is gone. Stiles’ shoulders are tense for a moment more before they slump, relaxing. He doesn’t know why Matt’s haunting him, or why Scott keeps seeing the lonely girl everywhere, and it’s not the ghosts or the mocking and eerie chills that now seem to follow him around that scares him.

It’s the not knowing.

"We're going crazy," Stiles lays it all out for where his friend sits on his bed. "Mad. We're seeing _ghosts_ ," he emphasises the last word, because no matter how many times he says it, it doesn't sink in.

"And weird symbols," Scott adds, "All week. And… most of this week too."

Stiles thinks back to two weeks ago, and the white chalk on the road. “Since the full moon,” he breathes, “I’ve been seeing this stuff since the full moon.”

Scott opens his mouth and then closes it again, swallowing. He looks back outside but the girl must be gone for his gaze scans the street outside his house, and focusses on nothing. "Is Matt still hanging around?" Scott asks, distractedly.

Stiles doesn’t need to check. The air is still cold though and he’s not surprised to see the girl spinning in his chair. He’d already had a freak out when he had woken up to see her sitting on his windowsill, and he had woken his dad with his startled cry.

Heather is grinning softly, straddling the seat backwards and her fingers just curl over the top of the seat. She doesn’t say anything, and Stiles would never admit it, but he prefers her presence to Matt’s. Matt is creepy and there is something lost about him that lingers in shadows. Stiles isn’t afraid of Matt. He knows Matt, the scared kid who lashed out. It’s what he can’t see that freaks him out.

Heather just is. She sits there and eyes him, but apart from a few cryptic messages she seems a lot like Scott’s ghost. She seems sad. As if she doesn’t want to be there but she is, and so she hangs onto Stiles like a lifeline of familiarity.

"I haven't seen him since Friday." Stiles lies to Scott, because he doesn’t want to worry his friend. Matt had been around on Friday, perched on his desk, waving at him. Stiles had thrown a pencil at the guy, straight through one eye, and then played a game with himself scoring himself as he threw various objects through Matt's head.

"Dude. Today _is_ Friday," Scott shakes his head.

Stiles frowns, "No. Today is Saturday. Remember? _Saturday_." he draws the word out and then glances at his calendar to check, but he's pretty sure he's right. He hasn't seen school today yet which meant it was definitely a weekend day, thankfully, because if he has to listen to Coach's barking voice one more time he's going to punch the guy. Or hit him with a baseball bat.

The alpha's hands are clenched into fists, "Saturday?" he asks weakly, "I… I could have sworn it was Friday." He shakes his head again, looking a little dazed. Scott’s really kind of out of it, now Stiles thinks about it. There had been times he had been functioning on automatic, as if he wasn’t really aware of what he was doing.

"You're not really here," Heather points out from the chair, adding in her usual little snippet of unhelpful advice, "Kind of like us really… you should have passed on by now." Her voice is laced with sorrow.

Scott's nails curl into his palm and Stiles drops down in front of him, holding his friend's shoulder's, "Hey, dude… relax…"

"Relax?" Scott's voice trembles slightly, "I'm… I…" he swallows, throat convulsing and then appears to physically force himself to breath. The red that had been growing in his eyes relaxes and then dies completely back to their usual puppy dog brown.

"How long do you think you can cling on?" Heather asks, finger tracing a pattern along the top of the chair, "Before you let go and fall altogether?" she flutters her eyelids at Stiles, gaze heavy with words unsaid and he looks away, heart heavy.

Stiles wonders if there are worse things than being haunted by ghosts. He could be dead, he guesses. He could be dead and haunted by ghosts. That would suck.

"We're losing it dude," Scott whispers, and his gaze is scared, "We're freaking losing it."

He glances back towards the chair but Heather is gone. He's slightly disappointed, but squashes it down, because the poor girl is dead. She had been used as a sacrifice in a stupid ritual for Julia or Jennifer or whatever her name was.

He wants to laugh, because ghosts showing up… well at least there are plenty to go around.

He ignores the part of himself that remembers that there is one particular ghost he doesn't think he would mind visiting him.

***

"Here," Melissa passes the files over to Argent on Monday morning. Chris takes them, assessing the contents for a few long moments, "That's the best I could do," she says. Above her the lights flicker.

Chris glances upwards and then down again. Melissa marvels over his ability to speak without moving his mouth at all.

"We've got electrical problems," she waves one hand dismissively, but makes a mental note to get someone in to fix the bulb in the records rooms, "We've got electricians all over the building trying to find the source of the problem." She leans closer, "Personally," she adds, "I'm thinking rats. So I hope they find them soon or this hospital could very soon be in debt."

The stoic hunter nods and waves the files at her, "Thanks," he says, "Can I have a copy of these?"

Melissa shakes her head, "Those are confidential as it is. You don't know how many laws I'm breaking here just letting you see them." She looks to the files in his hands, "Why do you need them anyway?"

"The girl who died…" he begins, "She was… what… five? And she drowned? Where were her parents?"

The nurse glances at the name. One Theresa Moore who had been dead on arrival from drowning in the river, "Did you know the family?" she asks, her head still tilted upside down, peering at the file.

Chris stares down at the brown paper for a moment before he spins it around and passes it back to her. "Thanks," he says, skirting around her question, "For letting me see this."

She turns and tries to search for the right box that it had originated from. "It's no problem. But I'm pretty sure that this isn't anything weird. It was just an unfortunate death. Tragic really."

"Yeah," Chris nods slowly, "But it doesn't explain why Allison is seeing this child's ghost."

As if one cue the lights flicker and this time both adults look upwards. "Ghosts are a thing?" Melissa asks slowly.

The hunter nods curtly.

She takes a deep breath and then shrugs it off. A homicidal lizard was still weirder. "Have you see her?" she asks, finally succeeding in dropping the file back in the right location. "The girl?"

"Allison has," Chris seems tense, and rightly so, "It's just those three seeing them. After what they did…"

He doesn't even need to specify who 'those three' are, Melissa just knows. And he hasn't told her yet.

She takes a calm breath and thinks that her hands-off mothering is about to be thrown out the window because like it or not, she wants to stay involved with her son's life (and unfortunately that of his many weird friends and the kid she sort of adopted. She should really get around to making that official sometime).

There is movement in the corridor outside and with regret she watches the person who passes. "Excuse me," she says, "I should see to this…" and she hurries towards where a blonde girl around seventeen lingers. Chris watches for a few seconds, before turning off the lights and closing the door.

***

"So," Melissa feels like the bad cop as she greets Scott on Monday after he gets home from school, "What's this I hear about ghosts?"

There is a splutter and both McCalls turn to see Isaac choking on the water he had been drinking. "You too?" Isaac stares at Scott. Melissa looks between them, wondering at the lack of communication over that past week.

***

Scott is torn, and slightly hurt. He'd spent most of last week after all, psyching himself up to tell Allison, only to turn around and walk away, because she didn't need him anymore.

She had Isaac, and Scott didn't know whether to be reassured by that or saddened by his loss.

"Well?" Melissa has her arms crossed. She only ever wears that expression to when she's annoyed. She's not angry though, she's worried. "I had to hear it from Chris Argent of all people. And he heard it from Allison after she finally told him last week."

Isaac wipes splashes of water from his chin and moves towards Scott, and then stops when Melissa turns to look at him. "I'm sorry," he says, and his eyes duck to the ground in something almost akin to submission, "I… I didn't think you'd want to know… it is Allison who's seeing them, not me and it wasn't really my place to tell…" Isaac is babbling, Scott realises. Not only that, but the poor guy is so unused to a mother's chiding love that he thinks she's angry at him.

Melissa's hands drop to her sides, "Oh Isaac, I'm not mad," she steps towards Isaac, and the teenager can't stop the abortive flinch he makes as she reaches towards him. She stops, and smiles at him, and Scott suddenly wonders if this is what it feels like to have a brother. (Other than Stiles who practically already lived at their house. He was also positive Stiles had stolen all the baseball bats, and that despite breaking them all on attempting to give a werewolf a concussion, his mom had still gone out and bought him a nice metallic one for his last birthday. It was like some sort of weird McCall initiation present. Maybe they should get Isaac one…).

Isaac ducks away, not meeting anyone's gazes. "I'll uh…" he waves his hand, "I'll make dinner," he moves back into the kitchen.

Melissa stares sadly after him. Scott wonders if it's enough to get him out of the 'mom glare' that despite her hands off parenting, Melissa has somehow still managed to acquire.

"So," she turns back to him and his heart falls. "Ghosts?"

***

"It's not that bad," Stiles tells him. Scott sits slumped in a chair and is currently gazing at a window with a bright red sigil on it that looks like it is painted in blood. He can even smell it, rust and iron in his nose and he flinches slightly. The ghost girl sits leaning against the wall, fingers daubed with the red paint as she dabs at the floor, bored, but still waiting for something that Scott doesn’t know.

"Dude," he turns away from the nameless blonde girl, "We see ghosts."

"Yeah?" Stiles shrugs, "Well they haven't tried to kill us yet."

"I don't like the 'yet' in that sentence," Scott grumbles.

Stiles shoves him off the chair and leans over the laptop sitting over on the desk. "So, I did some research," Stiles says, head bent low. “Like… a lot. All last week. And most of the weekend. And Lydia agreed to help us scour the bookshops. The best I could find from internet search once I got past the spiritual stuff, to keep yourself from evil spirits blah blah…" his fingers fly across the keys and Scott shoves him down so he can peer over his friend's shoulders, revealing Stiles is typing a long winded phrase into google.

"Then," Stiles continues, as a half-decent website that is totally ruined by the weird logo of these guys called the ‘ghostfacers’ pops up, "There's all this belief about horseshoes that are meant to bring good luck and actually protect people. Celtic beliefs also have a cross made of rowan and bound in red thread will ward off the bad stuff."

Scott stands, "That's not going to help. Is there anything useful?"

"Other than condiments and buying expensive gemstones that do nothing?" Stiles shrugs, "I've found nothing."

"Condiments? So we throw ketchup at them?" Scott actually contemplates this for a moment, "Maybe they'll think it's blood."

Stiles abandons the computer, leaving Scott's computer on a spiritual website about how to cleanse your house from evil spirits. It's a load of rubbish. With a sigh the alpha closes it and a bunch of pop-up windows appear. Sinking back into his seat he clicks on the close buttons as Stiles begins to pace. "Not ketchup," he explains, "Salt is meant to purify though apparently." he spreads his hands out in a 'why the hell not' gesture that Scott stops before it can get too far.

"Dude, you are not stealing my mom's salt shaker. She'll kill you."

Stiles flops on Scott's bed as if it was his own. "Then what do we do? Just shrug and ignore the dead people?"

"Maybe…” Scott glances at his window where the blonde girl is daubing red patterns on the clear glass. "If this is an after effect of being a sacrifice then… well at least we're not dead, that's all I'm saying."


	7. Swap Our Places

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty exclusive to the other characters, but it still helps to develop some characters and plot. After this one the two groups at Beacon Hills merge together.  
> Thank you to anyone who has commented, bookmarked or kudo'd this story! It's great to know people are reading and me and partwhereyourun love to hear your comments!

"It's been a month. What if he doesn't get better?"

"He will Lex, he will. He has to."

"And where we gonna' stay? Live in this crappy motel room?"

Nate glances around the dodgy motel. They had found an empty room on the second floor. The carpet is peeling up in the corners, there's an old bed with the spring shoved through, sticking out like antennae and it had been used to stack boxes that now sit coated with dust.

Their accommodation is just the first on many problems that Jethro had caused for them. She eyes her boots, the laces fraying slightly.

They are in America. What the hell had motivated Jethro to magically teleport them to fucking America?

They had arrived with nothing but the clothes on their back. No passports, no money, no health insurance, and no family.

"I want to go home," Lexi stares pleadingly at her. It's been this way for three weeks. Another full moon is fast approaching, and nothing had changed since they had arrived.

Instead Nate, desperate and on edge and attempting to avoid awkward interviews at the hospital had woven lies on top of lies. Thankfully the nurse, though suspicious, doesn't ask too many questions and their story had grown slightly more solid.

She mentally laughs. Their story might be a solid brick wall but it was balanced on a pole. It anyone poked about too much it was going to fall over.

Thankfully she had at least been able to transfer some money over. Her first instinct had been to phone one of the pack members, but with sadness she knew she no longer could. Other things like documentation and ID was harder, but manageable. Expensive too, and she hopes it will be worth it.

When the sisters aren't breaking laws left right and centre, they are breaking into houses for money and food. Lexi's moral compass had emerged here, but Nate's sharp arguments had won easily enough.

They are desperate with nothing to lose.

Except their friend who lies dying in the hospital.

He still shows no improvement, and a part of Nate worries. Another part shrugs it off, uncaring. A third part, one she's only just beginning to realise exists, is trying to make a decision that is best for her pack.

Her decidedly small pack.

***

She recalls arriving in Beacon Hills. That's the name of the town, apparently, somewhere in California, inland, because it's at least two hours to the sea. She remembers being squeezed tightly, as if shoved through a hole far too small, and all she could do was clench her eyes closed and hang on tightly to her sister and friend.

She remembers landing, the ground rushing up to meet them as gravity suddenly took a hold of them, and their weightless limbs were ensnared and she had fallen to the forest floor, leaves crunching under her as she had looked up, fingers still holding onto the other two with her, and she had thought for a moment that she was unable to let them go.

Her gaze had flashed up and she had seen the woman demon pulling Luke up, and for a moment she stared in horror at the black eyes, an abyss staring back before the woman stepped away into nothing, dragging Luke with her.

She had wanted to scream in frustration and anguish, but found she didn't have it in her to care.

Her family, her pack was dead. Slaughtered. And it was Luke… poor hapless, misguided Luke who had been the catalyst. She had turned away from the spot the pair had stood, looking instead to her friend. She tugged on Lexi, uncoiling stiff fingers from her sister's hands.

"Lex?" she had whispered, pulling her sister up towards her. The younger girl had stirred, blinking up at her.

Nate had then turned to Jethro who had been lying boneless on the ground. Her hands were sticky, drying with blood and she forced herself to ignore that as she leans forwards, listening to his pulse.

It was still there. Beyond that she didn't know, she wasn't a doctor, and never wanted to be one. She had looked up instead towards the sky, as if pleading for help, and the stars above her were all different.

She didn't know where she was, but there was something wrong with Jethro and she had to look after Lexi because they're the last, the last of her pack now.

And she's the alpha. She has to protect them.

"Lexi," she had leaned down so she could meet her sister's eyes. "Lexi, I'll be right back." she says. "I'm going to see where we are, okay? I'm not going far…"

Her sister had nodded, clinging to her and Nate had reluctantly pulled back, standing on stiff muscles and moving away. They had arrived on an outlook point, and she had stumbled towards it, breath catching as she had looked down on the town sprawled beneath her feet.

It hadn't looked familiar. The landscape too was strange, rolling hills that were large, and the forest almost untouched.

It hadn't felt like home though, and it still didn't.

She had realised then that there was still blood on her arms, and she had stumbled down into the woods a little way, dropping besides a stream and rubbing at her arms. She scrubbed at them with her fingernails, shaking and shivering as she tried to remove all evidence of the night's events. It caught under her fingers and she kept washing, convinced that it was still there.

Even now so much later she would look down and think she saw a spot of red. She lets out a bitter laugh, because she doesn't want to be Lady fucking Macbeth in this. She's not a murderer. She's the victim.

It's her life that is ruined.

She had moved back towards Lexi then. It was still light, she realised as well, late around three, maybe four or so in the evening.

Did that mean they had moved time zones completely?

"Nate," Lexi had called to her, "Nate he's… is he dead?"

She had turned back then, to her sister, her responsibility, her last link to control and pack.

Looking back Nate can't quite remember the trip to the hospital fully. She had been so numb. She was cold and numb and some part of her was dead inside.

She was the alpha now. It was a chilling thought. She always knew she would be the alpha one day, and her father had always tried to teach her, prepare her, but she had laughed it off, preferring to run in the woods or try to do what normal girls did.

Half the pack had probably been expecting another beta to step up to the task, while the rest were just waiting for her rebellious faze to pass. Now they'd never find out which she would have done.

She was thinking of them in past tense. It made her sick.

Jethro wasn't heavy, draped over her shoulder. She's a werewolf, and he's a human.

Well… sort of human at least.

Regardless he was half draped over her shoulder as she and Lexi headed into town. They peered at road signs, and Lexi was the one who spotted the sign for the hospital and they followed it. The signposts were helpful and convenient, because she had no idea where she was, but she knew it wasn't England, not when they almost got run over by a car, a battered jeep, travelling on the right side of the road. Or the wrong side, depending on your perspective.

It took them a while to get there, and she doesn't remember half of it. She knows at one point though that she stumbled, tired not as much in body, but in mind. She was still trying to cope with everything that's happened, and it was draining, trying not to let the horror just wash over her.

She had stumbled and almost fallen and Lexi darted forwards, taking half of Jethro's weight. It shouldn't have made much difference, but it made her feel lighter, because at least her little sister was still here besides her.

***

She's still here, and Nate vows to keep it that way. She won't let her last remaining family member slip through her fingers.

"Are we going to stay here?" Lexi asks.

Nate can't face that question. She can't.

She doesn't know the answer.

"I'm going to visit Jethro," she says, standing abruptly. "You stay here, okay?"

"Nate."

"No." Her tone is laced with command and Lexi stands down almost immediately. "I can't have you getting hurt."

Her sister looks beaten down, but there is still life in her eyes, a need to move on and live, and Nate wishes that she could provide that.

She can't. She's seventeen. Almost eighteen. She doesn't know what to do.

Later she sits beside Jethro in a hospital chair, the cheap plastic digging into her back. It's uncomfortable.

As usual the doctor smiles at her. He's a thin lipped Japanese man, small with hunched over shoulders that make his white coat pool over his chest. He passes by as she sits there, staring at Jethro's lifeless body.

The beat of the heart monitor is steady. He hadn't responded to treatments, and several times had seemingly slipped away so they'd put him on life-support. An IV drips into his arm and there is the slight hiss of the oxygen mask.

She wants to be worried about him, but somehow Jethro has dropped down in priority. She's the alpha now, and she has to protect her sister. The rest of the pack are dead and she has a responsibility now.

Jethro saved them, she reminds herself. But then again there was no guarantee that the demon wouldn't have moved on regardless, ignoring them in the deluge of blood like she had been doing. She seemed to have some deal going with Luke, and had ignored her chance to kill…

"Hello?" Melissa pops her head in at the door and Nate startles, and she wishes she wasn't so jumpy. She also wishes she wasn't so distracted that she hadn't even heard the nurse coming. "How are you doing?"

Nate nods, short and jerkily. If she starts talking she knows she's going to be bombarded by questions so she stays silent.

Melissa casts a glance at Jethro lying pale and still, his hair dark against pale skin. "It's been three weeks," she starts, and Nate doesn’t really want to hear what she has to say, but she doesn't want to be rude and leave again, abruptly, so she stays, and stares at the floor. "If he remains in a coma," Melissa slips in, closing the door and moving over to the end of the bed. "There are some long term issues that you have to be aware of. Issues such as muscle atrophy, caused by disuse. We're been exercising his muscles gently…" she stops and crouches down, so that Nate's field of vision is taken up by the nurse. "Usually we give people the facts," Melissa points out, "That if they don't wake after so long they're never going to wake. But with Jethro… we don't know what's wrong with him."

Nate swallows, "So will he wake up?" she asks.

The nurse glances down and then meets her gaze steadily. "There is every possibility that he will wake up." Melissa takes her hand, and for a moment it's warm and reassuring, motherly and everything she needs.

But she hears the words unsaid and she jerks her hand back.

"I'm sorry." Melissa says quietly, and stands to leave.

Because as much chance there is of Jethro waking, there is every chance he won't.

***

She's losing Nate.

Lexi can see it. Her sister suddenly has the weight of the world on her shoulders and she's breaking.

She prays that her sister can make it through and then stops, because she doesn't know who she's praying to.

Werewolves don't go to heaven, her mother had told her.

The angels wouldn't answer her prayers, and nobody helped when her family was being slaughtered.

There is nobody for her to pray to and so she stops and instead watches and observes in silence as her sister grows more and more distant from her. She is almost convinced that Jethro is going to die on them, Lexi can hear it in her voice every time she asks how he is.

"He'll wake up," she will tell her, but it sounds more like Nate is trying to convince herself than Lexi.

Jethro might fade away, and then he'd be just another person to die on them. He'd die and leave them in a strange country, with no conceivable way of getting back. She thinks with sadness of her home, the clearing in the hills, her room, her friends, her school.

She never thought she'd miss school.

For a moment the homesickness is overwhelming and she wants to crawl to her sister and curl up next to her.

But Nate isn't there. She's breaking into homes, stealing money, trying to keep them living.

Jethro is though.

Lexi considers her options for a moment, before standing. She scrawls a note to Nate, to stop her sister worrying, and leaves it in plain view, somewhere easy to spot.

Then she leaves the second floor room they had been staying in. It's cold out, and the weather here is all strange to her. There are no rolling clouds in the sky like back home, just an never moving mass of grey hanging over the one side of town. It wasn't that wet either, she muses, kicking a dry leaf along the pavement.

They call them sidewalks here, she reminds herself, and wonders if she could get used to living here.

She navigates her way around the hospital with ease. It stinks of antiseptics and disease, and worst of all is the scent of clean blood. She'd never have thought that blood could be clean, but there is something about the stench of medicines that gives the rusty metallic tang a soapy, clean smell.

It makes her uneasy and her head spins. It is with relief that she slips into Jethro's room. The lights are dim, because it's not exactly like anybody needs them on. The scent of her sister lingers in the chair where she must have visited earlier, but it's already fading, and she probably left just over an hour ago.

Nate's going to kill her when she finds out that Lexi snuck out, but the young girl doesn't care. She lingers instead awkwardly and looks at Jethro, pale and still.

He looks dead, if not for the reassuring beat of the heart monitor. She reaches out and grasps one of his hands. His skin is cool. She's been expecting it to be icy cold and clammy, but she can feel the faint pulse of blood under the skin.

Lexi slips into the chair and sits there, examining the boy's sleeping face. She cradles his hand to her cheek, and rests her head on the edge of the bed. There is a faint flush of green that traces through one of his veins, but Lexi doesn't notice.

Nate might be beginning to doubt Jethro's survival, but Lexi knows he is going to wake up. He saved their lives, and the hero always lives, right?

It's suddenly too cramped in the small room. She is plagued by the thought that maybe, just maybe, life isn't quite a fairy tale. She's realised that already, but she'd still been hoping for her happy ending.

She pulls back, standing suddenly. She shakes her head, dizzy all of a sudden, and stumbles towards the door.

Once outside the flare of the hospital lights blind her into squinting. The world spins and she takes a breath, her vision blotching slightly. There isn't enough air and she feels faint.

She begins walking along the corridor, back and forth and gradually her heart slows and she shivers, relaxing slightly. The hospital is still sterile to her, and beneath it there is the sense of worry and distress, covering over the scent of disease and injury.

Her eyes flutter closed, and she wonders what the time is. She used to be able to tell to the exact minute, but the time zone shift is still getting to her, even after almost a month over here.

There is a muffled scream from the room she is standing next to and she opens her eyes, only mildly curious. She's in a hospital after all, and the patients moan in pain all the time.

She steps forwards, ducking her head and peering through the window. There is a gap in the blinds, and she looks through the beige fabric. The nice Japanese doctor is in there, leaning over a patient. He's grinning, looking happy about something. The patient is a middle-aged man who is pressing himself down onto the bed, and though his mouth moves, Lexi, for all her super hearing, can't hear what he is saying.

That is, she realises, because he can't breathe. He gasps as if drowning.

"It's okay," the doctor reassures him, perching on the edge of the bed and leaning over. The lights flicker. His hand presses down on the patient's mouth.

Lexi squints, and one moment it's dark, the next it is light and the doctor's eyes are white, as if rolled back in his head, and then there is another flicker.

Dark. Light. She blinks and the doctor's eyes are normal again.

The patient moans, but it’s muffled by the hand pressed over it. He struggles slightly on the bed, and the doctor presses a free hand to his lips.

"Shhh," he hums, and the lights flicker again. "It will hurt less if you don't struggle," the doctor says calmly, and beneath him the patient writhes.

Dark. Light. The room is empty.

Lexi blinks, startled, but the bed is newly made and there is neither a doctor, not a patient within. She presses so close to the glass that her breath fogs on the transparent surface, but it doesn't change a thing.

Had she just imagined that… or maybe it was the hospital getting to her.

Once again the lights did their little dance, and alarmed suddenly, she backs away, her footsteps sounding loud in the quiet hallway. They quicken, heading back to Jethro and safety, because she must be more exhausted that she thought.

Jethro is lying still on his bed when she returns and she throws herself on there, pressing herself close. She grabs the blankets, cuddling them to her, if only for the mere illusion of safety.

She's still scared. The terror grips her and she clenches her eyes shut, listening to the sound of Jethro's breathing. She's going to have nightmares now. She knows she is.

Yet somehow when she slips off, her dreams are black and dark and draining and she doesn't dream.

She doesn't hear the screams that pierce through the silent hospital either.

***

Her sister is a fucking idiot.

Nate barrels, seven stone of pure wolf fury and worry through the hospital.

It's earlier than visiting hours, but by luck Melissa is on a shift and spots her coming.

"Is my sister here?" she demands of the nurse, her eyes blazing and it's all she can do to keep the wolf in check. It's been harder and harder lately, especially after her parent's deaths. Family had been her anchor, and now, with the loss of her family, she held tightly to the only thing she had left.

Said anchorage had gone wandering, and Nate hadn't realised until she had gotten back in at around one in the morning.

"She's sleeping," Melissa hurries along behind her. "I left here there, she looked so tired…"

The door cracks open and neither teenager startles. Lexi is fast asleep, curled up and relaxed on the bed pressed against Jethro. For a moment Nate relaxes at seeing her sister so peaceful for the first time since they'd arrived, plagued neither by nightmares or memories.

"I should…" she swallows down a lump in her throat. "I should get her…" she wants to say home, but the truth is they don't have a home. Instead she wordlessly moves towards the bed, and scoops up Lexi. Her little sister should be heavy, but she's a werewolf, and Lexi is light, at least now while she sleeps. If she were awake she would protest to being carried like this. She's thirteen, and she might still be in year nine, but she's not the young child Nate thinks of her as.

Jethro's head twitches as she scoops away the warm body from besides him. The heart monitor beeps quickly and Nate glances down, not really wanting to see his pale, almost dead looking skin.

Instead it's warm. That's the first surprise. His skin has a warm flush to it that has been missing for days.

The second thing that surprises her is his eyes. Hazel eyes blink open at her, and for a moment they are a vivid neon green before he blinks and they're normal brown again.

Jethro smiles sleepily at her. "Morning Nate," he mutters.

Nate almost drops Lexi in surprise.


	8. Enemy of My Enemy

Crowley is standing outside the bunker smirking at them when they return.

It's been almost a week since they staggered back to the Impala, dirt under their fingernails and identical bloody scars on their arms.

Dean glares at him. Sam has been driving because for the majority of the journey back, Dean had spent it sleeping in the passenger seat. Even as recovered as they were from being buried alive, the blonde had still worn himself out. The older Winchester had complained about all the mud and blood on the upholstery and the consequential cleaning of the car (and recovery from their experience) had taken up most of his time and energy.

He thinks that if Crowley wasn't such a posh and polite demon the guy would be lounging against the bunker wall. He has no idea how the demon found their hideout, but considering he's been stalking them around recently, and Dean has his phone number in his contact list (it thankfully hasn't yet made it to speed dial) it's not as surprising as it should be.

As it is the demon looks far too satisfied with himself. Sam clambers out of the car, stiff muscles protesting. Dean will move his baby later to the garage later, when the Hell King is gone.

"Hello boys." is his usual greeting that he loves to taunt them with. "Bang up job you fellows did," is the greeting they receive instead, snarky and tense at the same time. Dean glares at him and Sam... Sam snaps.

Dean knows that his brother has been twitchy since their failed ambush of Abaddon. There had been annoyance there, but also now Sam suddenly had found his urge to fight again. For whatever reason he wanted in, Dean wasn't really complaining.

He was just relieved to have his brother back. And yeah, he can admit that he screwed up. He knows it, Sam knows it. They also know that it kind of makes them even, and that they're back in this game now, no deals, no backhand mojo, just them, the open road, their bunker...

And a stupid-ass crossroads demon smirking at them

Dean thinks Sam might actually have a good reason to be choking the life out of the smug bastard.

Crowley hits the bunker wall with a thud, Sam's hands clasped in his shirt. He dangles off the floor, and despite this Sam still stands over him by several inches. Now Sam presses close, as if he's going to kiss the guy.

Or kill him, maybe, and Dean moves closer as Crowley opens and closes his mouth spluttering for words. "Shut up," Sam growls, and the words are punctuated with another slam against the wall. "Shut the fuck up. You sent us there to be _used_ in that goddamn ritual!" Sam is almost throttling him, the demon with his feet hanging off the ground by Sam Winchester's giant hands clasped in his suit and tie.

Crowley splutters. Dean's not sure if that's because he's running out of oxygen or if he thinks he has the right to be indignant. Can demons even die from suffocation? "A _trap_? You let _Abaddon_ raise another _demon_! She's got three out already and she just has three more to go!"

"We _let?_ " Sam repeats. His tone isn't even angry, its deathly calm as he repeats the words, "We _let_ Abaddon raise Belial from the pit? So we just _let_ her use our blood, and we just _let_ her and him walk off and leave us buried alive?"

He steps back, fingers uncoiling and Crowley drops. He sprawls in the dirt and Dean can’t bring himself to feel any sympathy for him.

"You sent us there to be used in that ritual and you claim we _let_ it happen?" Sam snarls.

Crowley stands, brushing off dirt from his jacket. "Well you were the idiots who were stupid enough to let yourself get caught," he grumbles.

Sam punches him. Dean hides his grin behind his hand, because he doesn't think Sam's been this pissed off at anyone for a long time. He had a horrible kind of disappointed anger with Dean for his deal with Gadreel, but this? This is rage and frustration and Dean is quite happy to stand here and watch his younger brother take it out on Crowley.

"I didn't know!" Crowley holds his bloody nose, "I didn't know she'd use your blood!"

"And the yellow-eyed demon?" Dean demands, "Did you know about that?"

Crowley grows pale, "She was meant to be raising a demon. I didn't know _which_ demon," he sneers, vainly attempting to recover some of his bravado but as Sam leans closer his expression drops again.

"Well congratulations," Sam looks like he wants to kill Crowley with his gaze. Once upon a time he probably could have… well that and a little hand waving. "Thanks to you we've now got Belial, lord of the pit running about."

"Belial?" Crowley squints at them, a little bit of disbelief in his tone, "Please tell me that is not what you just said." and from the expression Crowley wears, that name carries nothing good.

"Yes, Belial," Dean stalks forwards now, "You know, the fallen angel?"

Crowley grins and shakes his head, "No. You mutton heads must have been mistaken. All the fallen angels were locked up like Lucifer was. Or thrown into the lake of fire. You can't just let them out, not without blood from..." he stops, and stares in horror at the two brothers who both shift uneasily under his scrutiny. "Well." he considers, "I guess you two did the trick then?"

Sam shakes his head slightly in frustration, "I've had enough of this," he says to Dean, making for the bunker door.

Dean grins at where Crowley looks like he is just beginning to realise the full reach of the new situation they've found themselves in. "This is Team Let's Fuck Everything Up." Dean tells the Hell King. "Welcome to the club."

***

"This isn't happening," Crowley appears to be trying to deny it, "She was meant to be raising demons! Not fallen angels from the bottom circles of the pit!"

"Demons being the things that were once human?" Sam asks, "Like you?" Crowley looks offended, but Dean's little brother ignores him, "So there are two types of demons, the other sort being the angels that fell with Lucifer…?”

Crowley nods, "Like Azazel."

Dean and Sam gape at him, but he doesn't appear to notice, taking a seat at the table and half-way to putting his legs up before deciding against it with a hasty glance at the brothers and sitting stiffly instead.

"But he and Belial can't have been angels," Sam protests, "They didn't need to ask permission when possessing someone. Belial didn’t, the black smoke just barged into the poor guy!"

Crowley shrugs, spreading out his hands and Dean considers just sticking the Hell King back in their dungeon. "Lucifer got locked up before his grace became too corrupted. But the others? Azazel and Abaddon and the likes… they just went bad. The worse you can get. They tore down human souls and ripped them apart. They themselves were so burnt and their grace turned so black they were in effect demons. Powerful, but still demons. They no longer needed permission."

"Abaddon?" Dean repeats, "She's a fallen angel?" he tries to clarify.

"Do you have to repeat everything I just said?" Crowley leans forwards, elbows planted on the wooden table and Sam slips into the seat opposite him, a grilling face on. Crowley looks slightly disconcerted by the rejuvenated Winchester.

Sam matches Crowley's pose. "Abaddon has black eyes," he points out. "Why doesn't she have yellow eyes?"

Crowley shrugs, "Who knows? Who cares? They're all corrupted angels. Different ranks probably. But come on… you didn't think she was hard to kill, just because she was a Knight, did you?" he glances sideways at Dean.

"So we can't stab her with an angel blade?" Sam asks. "And what about Belial? Would that kill him? We killed Azazel with the Colt!"

"Belial's crawled from a circle further down than Azazel," Crowley leans back, crossing his arms. "You're welcome to try. Ignoring the fact you two idiots let Lucifer destroy the damn thing… Otherwise I think the jawbone's your best bet."

"Yeah, and you're doing a brilliant job at finding that," Dean observes Crowley lazing at their table. He's still considering chucking the demon back into the dungeon, and they might still if Crowley loses sight of the plan and goes off on a bender or something.

Crowley doesn't say anything, and Dean realises that this is because the sneaky eyed demon is watching Sam's reactions, his brother looking uneasy. Sam shifts in contemplation of something and the light reflects off the ragged stitching on his arms. The red-eyed demon's eyes flicker to Dean's own scars.

He whistles, "What did she do?" Crowley sneers. "Crucify you?"

Dean and Sam exchange a dark glance.

"She didn't…" Crowley looks between them, "Well bollocks." he says, "That's…" he stops, and winces.

"Yeah," Dean steps back, "Now if there's nothing more we'd like you to leave. Otherwise you can spend the night downstairs."

The incorrigible demon wiggles his eyebrows, "And whose room will I share?" he looks between them, "Or is Dean's boyfriend around?"

"In iron," Sam adds, and the tone of his voice probably reminds Crowley that Sam had almost throttled the life out of him earlier and he stands sharply.

"Oh and Crowley!" Dean calls after him. "We currently have an advantage. Abaddon thinks we're dead." The British guy pauses, unsure what that means. Dean doesn't want him lingering longer than necessary so he adds darkly, "Try to keep it that way."

Crowley's been the only villain, Dean thinks, that has never really underestimated them.

It probably explains why he's still alive and the rest are all dead.

***

"What the hell are you wearing?" Dean demands, staring at his brother. Sam is sitting at the table in the bunker, with books strewn around in Latin and other unfamiliar languages, but all of them about the same topic.

Fallen angels.

"It's a t-shirt." Sam glances down at the dark blue tee, the faded image of a greyhound or whippet standing there.

"I can see that." Dean places a mug of coffee in front of Sam and slips into a seat opposite, sipping his own drink. "But I thought I destroyed that t-shirt with that stupid greyhound on it years ago." he glares at the offending t-shirt.

His brother looks suspicious. "So that's why I keep finding my one shirt in the trash?" Sam demands, voice full of 'I am so fed up with your shit Dean' and  a mix of 'you're impossible why do I even hang around with you'.

Dean doesn't even need Sam to clarify the shirt in question. "Dude, it's pink and lined with flowers." he retorts. Sam also has a stupid propensity for wearing it every time they have some sort of emotional moment and there are times he just wishes said shirt would go up in smoke. Maybe if he glares hard enough...

"I like it!" Sam protests.

"It's a lame-ass shirt!" Dean says, his voice final. Sam pouts and cups his coffee, blowing on it to cool it down. Dean glances down at the pile of books. He recognises some of Bobby's texts, that they had moved over from the various storage lockers around the country. They'd also finally gotten around to emptying their dad's storage place at Black Rock, with the cursed items being catalogued and locked away among the various other artefacts in the men of letter's bunker.

It was official. Dean loved their base.

"So have you found anything?" he asks.

Sam glares at him over his mug but shakes his head. With one hand he grabs a pad of paper and throws it at Dean. "Turns out that symbol?" his finger stabs down on the pad, and it wobbles where it is precariously balanced on top of several books, "The one you almost tripped over? Turns out it's Belial's sigil. From what I can gather, Abaddon summoned him from the place he was last on earth."

"How did he get locked up?" Dean skims through the notes, reminding himself to remember several insults to throw at the bastard next time they saw him.

Sam finally takes a long gulp of his coffee. "Angels," he says, sounding both triumphant and frustrated. "They locked him down in hell in one of the circles near the cage."

Dean sighs, "Winged dickheads," he mumbles.

"What?" Sam looks up at him.

"It's always the angels, isn't it?" Dean spreads out his hands, dropping the empty mug in a gap on the table. "Do you think they'll know how to kill the sucker?"

"We have to find the sucker first," Sam reprimands, "And I think we should get some help in."

The older Winchester leans back in his seat, "Cas," he says, heart beating slightly faster.

His little brother gives him a funny look. "Yeah," he says, "I mean… he must have heard of the guy right?"

Dean chews his lip, "I still don't get it. What's Abaddon's plan? According to Crowley she's raising demons… and not just normal demons… fallen angels? So yeah… I think it's time to call in the expert."

***

Castiel's number is the second one on his speed dial.

Sam's is the first of course.

The angel doesn't pick up. Dean shakes his head at Sam and then stops as he listens to the voicemail. "Dude," he mouths at Sam, "Who taught Cas how to use a phone?"

Sam hides a smirk behind his precious laptop screen. His head is ducked but Dean knows he is grinning. Dean stuffs his phone back in his pocket. "I think I've got us a case," Sam says, "And everything points to demon signs."

"Oh yeah?" Dean raises one eyebrow. "What is it?"

Sam winces, "A pregnant woman was found dead."

Dean raises one eyebrow, stalking up to his brother, "And?" he asks.

"When they found her, she wasn't pregnant," Sam clicks on something, and Dean leans over staring at the screen, "Autopsy reports show no incision or any sign of early labour. One minute she's alive and pregnant. The next, she's dead and the baby is MIA."

The blonde levers himself up using the back of the chair. His arm gives a twinge of pain and gives slightly, and he lets go so he doesn't fall on Sam. He acts as if nothing just happened, but Sam gives him an odd look regardless. "We should check it out," he says. "Do y'want me to keep phoning Cas?"

"Leave a voice mail," Sam suggests, site searching for a while.

Dean scoffs, "I would but I don't think he knows how to check his messages."

The steady clicking of Sam's laptop pauses, "This is odd…" he says, pulling up a window. "I forgot I bookmarked this… There's this town in California that's had a state of animal attacks recently."

The blonde steps back, and with a sigh begins heading towards the various books and research materials, "One thing at a time, Sammy," he shouts over his shoulder, "And weird animal attacks can wait until later."

"But some of them coincide almost perfectly with the full moon," Sam mumbles, but he closes the window with a sigh, chair scraping as he pushes it out and follows Dean for some background reading into baby killers.

***

"Where the hell are you two going? You're half dead and you're hunting?"

The car swerves violently as Crowley materialises in the back seat. "Get out of my car!" Dean snaps, straightening the steering wheel and slowing down. Behind him a van driver makes an angry gesture but he ignores it, swerving to the side of the road.

The demon doesn't look unnerved. Without even a sound (in that regard Dean is grateful to the angels for their flapping wing noises) the demon vanishes out of existence. He reappears outside the car, casting a shadow over the door as he leans over and waves in the window as the engine splutter to silence.

Dean opens the car door abruptly, forcing Crowley to step back before the door slams into his head. Dean wishes he hadn't just so he could have had an excuse to give the not-quite-Hell-King a concussion. "What do you want?" Dean grinds out, because working with a demon was really beginning to grate on his nerves.

Sam has the demon killing knife visible in his hand as he steps around the car. "We can still hunt. We think we've got a lead on a demon."

"Which one?" Crowley's head turns between them.

Sam shrugs. "Does it matter? It could be nothing or it could be something big. Either way we're not going to sit around and lick our wounds. Nor are we going to hide away."

Crowley squints at them, "That's the thing I don't get about you Winchesters. You're always so prepared to throw yourself in the firing line. Let me remind you that last week you were crucified by one of the demons in question and then buried alive?"

Dean shrugs, "That was two weeks ago," he says, "Thursday as well. Nothing good ever happens on a Thursday. At least it wasn’t Tuesday."

He ignores Sam's bitch face for referencing Gabriel so blatantly, but Crowley just shakes his head.

"Listen, as much as I hate to say it, you two mutton-heads are the only support I've got to take down Abaddon."

"Enemy of my enemy sort of thing?" Sam asks, leaning slightly on the bonnet. "Like with killing Lucifer? Which didn't work. Like looking for Purgatory. Which is all on you by the way. And like with Dick Roman? Then you screwed us over." he doesn't sound impressed, "Excuse me if you're not exactly the top of our Christmas card list." Sam's stare at Crowley is deadly, and Dean feels a pang of guilt, because he knows Sam feels violated. Crowley possessed him after all, if only briefly.

"So how about we track down these demons," Dean throws out there, "And you get us the First Blade to kill the damn things."

"It's not that simple," Crowley grimaces. "See I've… uh… I've got the halo patrol on my back."

Dean throws his head back to the sky, because now if it isn't demons it’s the goddamn angels. He hopes Metatron knows what he did by throwing the guys out of heaven. The Fall had caused nothing but more problems.

"And you came to us why exactly?" Sam crosses his arms.

Crowley offers a narrowed eyed look, "You're the Winchesters," he says the word as if it's a curse, "Hell's scared of you and Heaven doesn't want anything to do with you."

Dean raises his eyebrows, "Hell's scared of us?" he repeats, "Are you scared of us?" you can hear the smile in his words.

The Crossroads King looks put out, "Will you two self-absorbed idiots get your heads out of your asses for one second, and help me?"

"I don't know," Sam shakes his head, "It's not every day the King of Hell asks us for help." his tone is patronising.

Crowley looks scattered, Dean realises. He's lost any security he had in Hell, and he's running scared. Abaddon's demons are out for his blood.

"What exactly do you want us to do?" Dean asks, stepping forwards, "Because there isn't exactly much we can do against angels."

"No? But there's something else you might be interested in." Crowley leans forwards, "Because the angels fell from Heaven, right? Your little boyfriend screwed everything up," he directs this towards Dean and the hunter wishes everybody would stop calling Cas his 'boyfriend'.

"Metatron tricked him," Sam defends the angel, and Dean wonders what the pair got up to while he was hanging around with Cain. The mark on his arm itches at the thought. "There was a spell and Castiel was a victim in it, as much as all the other angels were."

"The angels think there's a way to undo it," Crowley tells them.

"You said there wasn't." Dean shakes his head, "There wasn't a way."

"There isn't," the demon doesn't look deterred, "But they think there is. They think if they find one of the ingredients and destroy it, the spell will break."

"Ingredients?" Dean asks.

At the same time Sam begins listing them from where he probably had them memorised. "Heart of a Nephilim. Bow of a Cupid…" he stops, eyes wide.

Dean's throat is dry, "Grace of an angel."

***

"How the hell do you know we can trust Crowley?" Sam challenges Dean as the Impala hurtles down the highway. "He could be wanting us to do something else entirely, using us…"

"Because this is Cas we're talking about." Dean snarls, "Cas' grace. And if those bastards do find it and destroy it then he's gonna have to live with borrowed mojo forever."

"And?" Sam leans forwards slightly, "People live with heart transplants."

"Don't…" Dean takes one hand off the wheel to threaten Sam, "Don't compare Castiel's grace to a heart transplant."

Sam raises one eyebrow and thankfully doesn't comment. "How do we know this even is his grace?" he asks, "So Crowley's found this energy signature that the angels are interested in. It could be anything!"

"There's a chance," Dean shrugs, staring resolutely down the road ahead.

"I thought Metatron stole his grace. Doesn't it make more sense that Metatron would still have it?" Sam's playing Devil's Advocate here, and Dean thinks that there is something strangely appropriate about that.

"Look, we've got a case. Giant energy signature that matches grace. And the angels are interested in it. And you know who else will be interested in it? Demons. And where we'll find demons, we'll find Abaddon, and where we find Abaddon, we find Belial and all the rest of those fallen bastards she's summoning."

Dean's logic is sound, and Sam sighs, phone in his one hand as his call to Castiel fails. "He's still not answering," he says, finger scrolling across the screen.

"Dammit," Dean clenches his jaw. He wants to pray, but even that has no guarantee of a reply. He knows that now.

"Hey, Dean?" Sam's voice is low, worried, and Dean glances sideways at him.

"What?" he asks.

"I think…" Sam is staring at something on his phone and Dean peers over for a few seconds before looking back to the road, trying not to run over a passing pedestrian. Sam's browsing the internet about the place they're heading to, and he's pulled up a page on something.

Avoiding the pedestrian Dean glances over again. It's the weather report. "So… sunny with expected showers?" he asks.

Wordlessly Sam turns the phone to face Dean.

"Freak lightning storms." he answers and Dean can see the image on the screen, of a little grey cloud, with a sharp slash of yellow lightning underneath it.

"Well crap."


	9. Ghost

"Her name is Theresa Moore," Chris tells his daughter. Allison looks up, brown hair falling into her eyes and she brushes it out, staring at him. She has the same eyes as her mother, Chris notices suddenly, and so he looks away, unable to meet his daughter’s gaze.

"Come again?" Allison asks, and her gaze keeps drifting to something over his shoulder, behind him in their apartment. Chris glances around to where she is looking, but there is nothing there. His fingers twitch for a gun, but it’s not like it’s going to do much good. Whatever his daughter is seeing is already dead. He had grown up training to kill monsters. The Argent family specialised in shape shifters and everything else had sort of fallen by the wayside.

He probably had a few contacts he could phone up. Someone somewhere must specialise in ghosts.

"The girl," he clarifies, straightening. "The drowned girl. One month ago, Theresa Moore was reported missing. Her body was found two days later downriver, and the cause of death was reportedly drowning."

"One month ago," Allison repeats, and then makes a lunge towards a calendar. "The full moon?" she asks, and her fingers rest on the date.

Chris swallows and looks down at where a small clear circle sits on the date under Allison's finger. She's right, and he could kick himself for not noticing sooner. Then he worries, because of course Allison knows when the full moon is, her ex-boyfriend is a werewolf, and the way things are going there is a high chance her current boyfriend is going to be one too. "That's an awful coincidence," he tells her.

A short sharp shake of her head denies it, "Scott and Isaac aren't in the habit of drowning children." her tone is icy, and she is both angry and slightly hurt by his attempt to link the drowning to her friends. "And Stiles was with them. Most of the night."

"I wasn't accusing them of anything," Chris placates her. Allison has inherited both her mother's spirit but also his own hunting skills and that small ounce of hesitation. At times it made her weak, and her hands would tremble and the arrow would fly off and miss the target, but most of the time Chris was glad she had it.

It gave her something that neither he nor Victoria or Gerard could ever teach her.

It gave her mercy.

***

It's hard to tell how freaked out her dad is. Chris Argent takes everything she says with his usual stoic expression, but she knows he must be worried. Allison also knows that the next step is leaving, and she won't let it come to that. She retreats to her room, to think things through before phoning Lydia or possibly even Scott, since once again this involves all of them.

"Anything?" Isaac sits on her bed and she doesn't even know why she's surprised that he's there.

"Did you climb in the window?" she says, and her hand drops from the knife blade at the small of her back, letting her shirt fall down over it. His eyes flicker to her hand and then back to her face.

The beta looks unconcerned, shrugging, and his legs swing back and forth. "It was open." he tells her.

She shakes her head, "You know," she muses, pursing her lips, "If anybody were to see you… they'd start thinking we were together or something." Her tone is light, and her eyes drift around the room. "And we wouldn't want that."

"Wouldn't we?" Isaac grins, and in one fluid movement he stands, closing the distance between them and resting his hands lightly on her waist. His head is bowed down towards her, and it would be so easy to just reach up and kiss him.

She looks down, hiding a smirk. Just for a moment, she lets herself forget about the ghosts and her hand comes up to trail along his shoulder, and then she splays her palm against his chest, listening to the reassuring heartbeat, a beat faster than normal humans.

Her eyes flicker up to look at him, blue eyes on her, and she catches sight of her bare arm, resting on his t-shirt.

She pulls back so suddenly she almost falls over and Isaac reaches out to steady her. She draws away, and stares down at her arm. The black lettering blurs and is indistinct, but it's there. She turns her right hand over and it's still there, like a black tattoo on her skin.

"Allison?" Isaac's voice is hurt as she steps back, quick, short steps to the backroom down the hall. He steps out of the bedroom, following her a little way.

"I'll uh… I'll be right back," she calls over her shoulder to him.

He steps after her, then stops when the bathroom door slams behind her. She twists the lock, and on her left arm black signs and lettering bleeds into the skin. She blinks and it’s still there, the writing on her skin. She wants to tell someone, Isaac or her dad, but judging by his reaction he hadn’t seen it, they couldn’t see it.

Nobody can see what she can see.

Spinning around she stands in front of the tap, and she twists the taps on, sticking her hands underneath.

The black sigils that cover her arms are bleeding, blurring and indistinct and she scrubs at them.  They're not there, and a part of her knows that, but another part wants the damn things off her.

She scrubs at one arm, fingers clawing at the skin, and it does nothing. The sigils stay like black tattoos that she doesn't remember getting. Her breath catches, short and sharp in her throat as she turns the tap on fully, water splashing down onto her, scalding hot and freezing cold and she doesn't care. The mirror in front of her begins to steam, and she can see herself, pale and desperate and slightly hysterical, and with black lettering slowly seeping into her skin like tears.

She makes a grab for the soap but it slips from her fingers. With a curse she ducks down to get it and when she stands again Kate Argent stares back at her from the mirror.

"Oh honey," Kate drawls, and the smile probably should be reassuring, but it's not. "You poor, poor thing."

She flinches, and spins around but the room is empty.

"I thought you were stronger than this," Kate whispers over her shoulder and Allison dreads what she will find, but Kate's blue eyes stare out at her from the bathroom mirror like some twisted horror movie. There is a flicker and the ghost shimmers, and for a moment Allison can see burnt skin, peeling and broken, the blood and muscles scarlet red with white bone beneath before her aunt smiles, whole once again.

"Go away," she whispers, stepping backwards. She reaches for the knife at her back, fully prepared to drive it into the mirror, to shatter the reflection.

It's at that moment that she realises she isn't there, reflected in the mirror. It's just Kate with her smile and fire dancing in her eyes.

"I killed them all. I burned that house to the ground. Does that make me a murderer?" her aunt reaches out with a pale hand. "What does that make you?"

"No," Allison shakes her head, taking another step back. "No."

"Don't you see?" Kate is emphatic, passionate about something Allison can't even see anymore, "We're the same, you and I! We're the same."

Allison's voice is almost a sob, but it remains strong, and defiant. "We are nothing alike," she shakes her head, "Now get the hell out of my mirror."

Kate just smiles. Her form flickers like static and the fire that is reflected in her eyes is suddenly around her, and the mirror reflects a burning room with Kate smiling in the middle of it. It licks at her aunt's skin, greedy fingers clawing at the flesh and burning it black. The smell of burnt flesh permeates the air. Kate reaches out again, and as she does her hair bursts into flames, and her skin begins to melt into a pasty colour of muscle and bone. "Join me," she whispers, hand reaching right for Allison as the teenager backs away.

Hands clamp down on her arms and she hits something solid behind her. A scream works its way out of her throat, as she finally draws the knife from her back and spins, plunging it straight into the warm body behind her.

Isaac gasps, doubling over slightly and dropping her arms. The knife protrudes from his stomach, and his hand press against the wound, as the beta bites his lips to stop himself crying out. Allison drops her hands away startled, and terrified as he wordlessly gapes at her.

He steps back, wincing and Allison's hands fly to her mouth. "Oh God," she chokes out, and she presses one hand to the wound immediately, "Oh my god… I'm so sorry…" she pulls the knife out without warning and he lets out another sharp gasp, knees bending over slightly as if he might sink to the floor at any second, but at least now it can heal. His fingers curl into the fabric of his t-shirt.

He grits his teeth. "Is this going to be a thing?" he asks, pressing two hands to his stomach, the white shirt already red with blood. "Because so far I'm not a fan." his face is twisted and Allison blabbers apologies to him. She can see the skin knitting back together quickly, but it doesn’t change the fact that she could have killed him.

Maybe this is why she only has relationships with werewolves. She’d kill anyone else.

“I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry,” she reiterates and Isaac takes his hands away from his healing would to rest on her shoulders. He doesn’t draw her close, just stabilises her, supports her, and that’s all she needs.

Her hands and arms are back to normal, and when she looks in the mirror there is nothing but her own pale reflection. The sink is overflowing with water and she lets it, because water puts out fire and in some part of her mind she wants that security.

Later when Chris finds the bathroom mirror covered up he doesn't question it.

***

The street is as busy as one would expect for a Monday afternoon. Some school kids bustle past, chatter filling the air, but Lydia ignores them, her attention focussed on her friend.

It’s the Nemeton. It’s always going to be that goddamn tree now. She had thought that drawing it had been bad enough, but now the three who had died to forge a connection with it were tethered to something far darker and far more dangerous.

Stiles is staring at a ghost. He stands there lounging on the pavement, hands in the pockets of that stupid hoodie he wears and looking at something off to the side, head tilted as if listening to something

It’s eerie, because ever since Peter bit her she’s been the one seeing things. She’s been the one hallucinating Peter, hearing the voices, finding the dead bodies. To have someone else zone out on her now… she feels almost jealous but it’s not because she misses being the one in the focus, it’s because she has no idea of how to help. Stiles and Allison had always known how to calm her down and get her talking, but this…? Lydia can’t even see the damn thing.

And that’s what frightens her the most.

Despite her banshee powers Lydia can't see it.

The thing is Lydia knows it’s there. She knows that as certainly as she knows she loved Jackson, but that she doesn’t anymore. As certainly as she knows that even though Scott hasn’t said anything, she is pack. She, and Allison and Stiles (even Isaac) are all part of Scott’s pack, whether he realises it or not.

And she knows there is something standing a little way off along the sidewalk. The other citizens run around that spot unconsciously, and Stiles stares straight towards it, listening.

"Hey," she snaps her fingers in his face and he blinks. "Eyes on me, because as hot as that ghost chick is? I'm hotter," and usually Stiles would be staring at her fully by now, but his gaze keeps wondering.

For the millionth time Lydia wonders if Stiles is bisexual and the ghost guy is hot.

"I-uh, sorry what were you saying?" he shakes his head.

"Really?" Scott approaches from behind lugging the bags. Lydia had originally dropped them with Stiles but somehow the super strong alpha had ended up with them. Despite the various books and protective paraphernalia they had found, Scott didn't even break a sweat carrying them.

Huh. Lydia should take him shopping more often.

"Since when…" Scott stops besides them, "When were you not hanging on her every word?"

"Shhh," Stiles' gaze drifts past her again, "Mr Harris is giving chemistry advice."

Scott startles, "Mr Harris? Our chemistry teacher?"

"No, the homeless dude on the estate. What other freaking Mr Harris do you know?" Stiles snaps.

"How come you get all the interesting ghosts?" Scott asks, looking fed up.

Stiles looks around towards Scott, and for a moment his face is raw emotion. Lydia realises suddenly, that despite the various ghosts that Stiles has parading around, he has seen everyone but the one he probably really wants to see.

"You call Matt interesting?" Stiles retorts. "He only went away went I threw a salt and vinegar curly fry at him. I don’t know what it was about ready salted curly fries, but he was gone. He hasn’t come back. In my opinion it was a waste of a good fry."

"So ghosts are allergic to potatoes," Lydia shakes her head in resignation.

“Or maybe starchy carbohydrates?” Stiles keeps up with her joke. She flicks him gently on the arm, and for a moment something echoes.

She blinks.

"Hey Lydia?" Stiles asks her, "Are you okay?"

"No." she admits it, because it's true, and she grabs onto Stiles arm.

She is prepared for the noise but even so it's overwhelming. The whispers drone on, layered over each other so that it is impossible to make out what is being said.

"Woah… Lydia?" Stiles doesn't pull away and she's grateful for that.

"Mr Harris?" she asks, "Where is he?"

Stiles wordlessly points behind her while Scott looks on confused. She hears the chemistry teacher before she sees him.

"Entropy Stiles! What did I tell you about entropy!?" Their chemistry teacher is the same as when she had last seen him.

She's thankful for that, because she doesn't know what she would do if he was dead. Thankfully he isn't garrotted to a tree. There isn't even a blood gash or claw marks on his body. His glasses perch on the end of his nose and he glares at Stiles. Lydia's hand trembles and she tightens her grip on her friend. Right now Stiles is acting as a conduit, and she's tuning into what he's hearing and seeing. If the link is broken it will all vanish again.

"Can you… can you see him?" Scott asks, and he looks around.

"Only when I'm touching Stiles." she says, quietly. "Why's he talking about entropy?"

Stiles shakes his head, "I don't know. He won't shut up about it. I tried to bribe him for test answers but he keeps going on about gases and solids and…"

"Entropy!" Harris barks, "What. Is. It?"

"A state of disorder." Lydia replies.

He grins at her, "You are so much brighter than you look," he says it like an insult and she ignores it. "Entropy. Disorder. Chaos. And what happens when you add in more variables?"

"Disorder increases." Stiles answers, breathing heavily.

Mr Harris' form flickers and waves before blurring out of sight entirely. Lydia drops Stiles hand. "What did he mean?" she turns to Stiles. He's not looking at her, he's looking past her again, face frozen mid answer.

A chill runs down her back.

Someone screams.

It takes her longer than it should to realise it's her.

***

Scott covers his ears, and Lydia's shriek still pierces through him. The bags drop to the ground, contents spilling out but he doesn't worry about it for the moment. Stiles flinches away, and it's alright for him, he doesn't have supersensitive hearing. The werewolf presses down harder to try and not hear the scream. It's piercing, like a bell and he wonders what the hell prompted it.

She stops as suddenly as she had started, and she is staring at horror in the distance. Stiles is there first, and he grips hold of her shoulder, looking into her eyes. His back arches as he meets her gaze squarely. "Lydia?" he asks, "Lydia what is it?"

She shakes her head mutely. "I… I don't know. I don't know…"

Around them some people are making movement towards them, looking concerned and Scott finally drops his hands from his ears and hushes the pair forwards, "We need to go," he glances around cautiously, "We need to…" his words are broken up by another whine, and for a moment he thinks it's inside his own head. Then Stiles and Lydia look around, and in the distance, the siren wails.

It’s an ambulance siren.

He meets his best friend's gaze for several seconds, before they lurch into action, jogging for the jeep. Stiles had parked it on the roadside, just across the street from the bookshops they had been perusing for the last hour. The doors slam and the engine starts up.

The door lock clicks open and Lydia clambers in, having paused to rescue their purchases from the pavement, "I'm coming too," she says, shoving Scott over and then proceeding to dump the bags onto him.

The car starts up almost as soon as Scott has successfully manoeuvred the small space into the back seat, where Lydia then throws the bags back onto him. Try as he might Scott can't lose the damn things. The books dig into him and he stuffs them in the limited floor space.

"Did you hear something?" Scott demands, the engine roaring over his words.

She just shakes her head numbly. "I don't know," she says, and that's her answer. Scott's not going to get any more out of her.

Scott flies slightly to one side as Stiles drives too fast around the corner. "What do you mean, you don't know?" Stiles asks, and turns to look at her, and Scott really wishes he'd just look at the road instead. "Is someone dead?"

"And what the hell was with you two? Entropy? Did you forget a homework for Mr Harris or something?" Scott feels a bit out of the loop.

Stiles glances over his shoulder, and Scott slides across the seat again and a book hits him on the leg. "He kept going on about entropy. About it being a… state of disorder. Then he reappeared behind Lydia when she screamed, and he… he looked like Jennifer's other victims. Garrotted and…" his voice is lost in the engine growl but Scott thinks he's probably stopped talking.

***

The ambulance is already devoid of the EMT's and paramedics when they finally finish tracing its path. They are all hovering around a small house, with a pretty garden where three dogs run up and down. One barks at the ambulance guys as they emerge from the house, a stretcher being carried out.

Lydia turns away in disgust, and even from here Scott can pick out that sickly smell of death, icy cold and tangy like some sort of cheap fast food.

"It's like roses. Roses and death." someone whispers, and he looks around but there is no-one there.

The police cars are parked outside, and he can see Stiles' father over in the distance talking to the neighbours. Lydia just stands numbly next to him.

"What's the point?" she asks, lips barely moving, but she knows Scott and Stiles can hear her. "What's the point in knowing this sort of stuff if I… if I can't do anything to stop it?"

Stiles reaches out and wraps one arm around her shoulder, and she moves with the gesture, as he draws her into him until her head rests on his chest, shoulders trembling slightly.

Scott stays silent, afraid to admit that he's wondered the same thing sometimes.

***

"Is it too much to ask that you three can stay away from mysterious deaths in this town?" Stiles' father asks them. Stiles’ head is tilted slightly, resting on Lydia's and he looks up, awkwardly.

"What…?" he asks, trailing off but his dad knows what he means to ask.

"Nothing mysterious." his father pre-empts his words. He runs a hand tiredly through his hair. "The guy died from starvation, and if that's anything supernatural I'll eat my hat."

"Starvation?" Scott repeats.

The sheriff shakes his head sadly, "He just stopped eating. Stopped drinking. He just got weaker and weaker and finally died. We think it was on purpose. You know the weird thing? The guy has three dogs, two cats and a pet bird, and they all had plenty of food. The cupboards were stacked with bags of food for them, enough to last a month. Must have loved them a lot to keep them alive over himself."

Stiles thinks, and not for the first time, that his father looks tired. Guilt claws at his stomach, because he had been planning on telling his dad about the ghosts, he'd promise after all… but he just couldn't put the extra burden on him. Not now.

"At least the man's at peace now," the Sheriff gives them a weak smile that looks for like a grimace.

And Stiles' fingers tighten where his one arm is wrapped around Lydia, and he doesn't want to break his dad's last illusion of normalcy.

Because the people who die aren't at peace. Not anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to Beacon Hills! Next chapter I stick with Beacon Hills events for you, so that should be something to look forward to. I figure I should probably warn you guys that the Teen Wolf characters you see here are going to be it. Derek isn't going to show up, he's off in South America with Cora. I also have never tried writing Derek before, so I didn't want to risk it. Peter does appear though, because he's irritating that way.  
> 


	10. Fallout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter begins to bring the Beacon Hills plot together. Hope y'all enjoy!

Jethro taps out a rhythm on his thigh, impatiently waiting for Nate to get a move on. He can see her outside his room at the hospital, deep in discussion with the nurse.

Lexi is curled up in the visitor’s chair. "Are you okay?" he asks her again, taking in the dark shadows under her eyes and the way her head keeps drooping down.

She yawns, and it's kind of cute. He grins. "I couldn't sleep," she answers him, her words slurring together, "I think I had a nightmare but…" she blinks, train of thought lost.

"But what?" Jethro presses, leaning towards her and then wincing, because a month of hospitalisation has done him no good. The nurse had thrown around words such as 'atrophy' and 'shortened muscles' and he'd ignored most of it, and the rest had flown over his head.

The blonde yawns again, blinking sleepily, "But what?" she frowns at him, "I didn't sleep well. Had a weird dream." she curls up into a slightly tighter ball like a young puppy (or wolf cub he muses) and she looks like she's going to drop off again at any minute.

In comparison Jethro feels revitalised, like he could run a marathon, if only his body agreed with his mind.

"Good news," Nate bursts through the door, "We can get you out of here." Her tone is short, snappy almost. She doesn't look at Jethro once as she glances around, head ducking slightly to check there is no-one outside. "Melissa isn't asking questions and she's managed to forge the insurance papers. Although why she wants to aid some teenage British runaways I don't know, but I'm not going to question it."

Jethro shifts slightly, the sheets creased uncomfortably beneath him. "Look, Nate…" he begins.

She shuts him down before he can even begin to work up to an apology. She doesn't want to hear it, and so he falls silent.

He has no idea how they ended up in America. The last thing he remembered was the demon laughing, her eyes black and Luke dangling like a puppet from her hands.

Then there was power burning through him and he remembers nothing else.

The power surge had come like a squall of rain, quick and violent, events so much a blur that he couldn't remember them. Then it had gone and he had been so, so drained, and that was about where his memories stopped.

"I think I've managed to find us somewhere to crash," Nate continues, ignoring him. "We've been staying in a motel on the edge of town, but there's this abandoned warehouse that's been converted into some sort of apartment. It's empty, and nothing has been there for months."

"Nate…" he tries again.

"There's a local pack," she adds in, "Lexi scented them. So we're going to keep our heads low, got it? We stay low, blend in, and then try and work up enough money to get us back to England."

Jethro wants to tell her how there is nothing for him, back across the ocean. And he also can hear the pleading in her voice, telling him that she still expects him to be able to magically pick them up and deposit them back in England.

He can’t. She had demanded that he took them back shortly after he awoke and he had numbly shaken his head.

He doesn’t know how.

***

Lexi wakes in the new apartment.

At least… she thinks that's what it is. It's an empty building, bricked on the outside and the most unfriendly place she's ever seen. The inside is bare brick walls, and the wiring had issues and kept sparking, as if someone had rigged it to try and electrocute someone on purpose. The main room is empty bar a single table in front of the window, a large glass section that covers almost the whole wall with a balcony outside. There are a few cheap stools, most of which sit unevenly on the concrete floor. In one corner several couches and a bed is shoved, as if someone with really bad tastes and not much money had outfitted the place.

There are stairs on the left side, and they spiral up to what she had discovered was another room with large bookshelves, stacked full of books. Half of them were handwritten, in a spirally scrawl. The subjects jumped from werewolf packs to druids, and that had been the first thing that had tipped the trio off to there being a pack already stationed here.

The second thing had been the howling on the full moon. It was the first full moon since that last, disastrous night where her family had died, and she had been twitchy, eager to run free in the woods and hills that bordered the town like an embracing arm.

The howls had rung out, and despite only being able to hear two wolves, Lexi is sure there are more. No pack would be that small.

The thirteen year old yawns and stretches. Jethro is sitting by the table in front of the arched windows, his wheelchair putting him at an awkward height to the table, but he manages somehow, books and sheets of paper spread all over.

"Where did you get those?" Lexi asks, still feeling drained despite her nap.

Jethro glances up. Lexi remembers the trouble Nate had had, getting him first into a wheelchair that he did not think he needed, and then trying to get the rugged old lift in the corner of the room operating to get him up here. "I found these," he waves several sheaves of paper, "In a box under the bed. Figured I might as well make myself useful."

She leans closer to see, and the books are all about the supernatural. The current one is open on a page of protective symbols and rituals. She can almost smell it in the air, the harsh ozone burn of magic that makes her head spin. Her parents used to have magical protection in their study, to ward against monsters she had never really believed existed before a month ago.

"They're warded," she tells him, "How the hell are you touching it?"

She knows from experience that if someone who isn't meant to be touching the books lays a finger on them it can hurt like anything from a sharp sting, to a full on electrocution. Thankfully she only got a slight static shock, but it taught her at six years old to stay out of her parent's study.

The other worrying question is if the books are magic, then who did they belong to? They had been left here, abandoned… was the person dead or were they planning on coming back?

Jethro flicks the cover of the current tome closed, and his finger traces the signs that look almost like decoration on the cover. The symbol under his finger shimmers as if in a heat wave, a slight wave of green travels up his veins.

"I don't know," Jethro says, and Lexi can hear the lie in his voice.

Her silence challenges him and he swallows.

He glances up at her and she widens her eyes a little, because even if Jethro can get away with lying to her older sister, he can't get away with lying to Lexi. "I can just… feel it." he says, rather pathetically, "I can feel it like… some sort of warm blanket." He strokes the cover, "And it's just like… peeling it off…" his fingers don't move but his veins run green again, so dark they look almost black under his skin. He shrugs, "And then it's gone." and the sharp smell of ozone is barely there now. "It comes back though," he tells her, "The runes recharge or something because I have to drain it again otherwise it shocks me."

His words send a chill down Lexi's spine. His choice of the word 'drain' makes it seem as if he sucks the magical energy right out of the rune. She shifts, suddenly aware of the lethargy in her limbs. She was exhausted, while Jethro looks revitalised, if a bit pale.

What if he had drained her energy? What if that's what he did, and he was some sort of energy draining incubus demon?

She leans away stifling with a yawn and Jethro gazes at her with concern in his brown eyes. She squashes down the thoughts, along with the fear of what creature Jethro could be.

He's still her friend.

That's all she cares about. Nothing will change that.

Even if he is some sort of energy draining incubus demon.

***

If school was hard before, it's three times more difficult with Kate humming some unrecognisable song while perched on the kid's desk in front of her. Allison has to keep leaning around her to see the board, and she's beginning to get funny looks from everyone except the usual suspects.

She's feeling guilty that she hasn't yet consulted with Scott, but for now Lydia's shared their news. When not being dragged to crime scenes by Scott and Stiles, who are a bad influence in that regard and seem to be doing that far too often to be healthy, Lydia is helping her translate the bestiary, looking for any mentions of ghosts. The best thing they found was about 'death echoes' mentioned in a paragraph that was actually about elemental spirits, whose murder victims often hung around the places they had died to warn people of the danger.

Currently Kate isn't doing any warning. Allison's hands tighten on her pencil as she tries to fight the urge not to scream or cry or close her eyes and hope this will all go away. She blinks, trying to keep it together, but she's been trying to keep it together for far too long.

When she opens her eyes Kate is gone. She slumps slightly in relief, sprawling across her calculus book. The sums swim before her eyes, and she considers how much she hates algebra, and how she wishes that could be the only thing that she has to worry about.

"Your sums are wrong," her mom's sharp tone makes her jolt upright, almost to attention. "I thought I taught you better." the voice is full of disappointment.

She ducks her head down, hair framing her face, not wanting to look over her shoulder. She can feel cold, icy breath on her shoulders, and a shiver runs through her.

"Allison!" her mom snaps, "Look at me when I'm talking to you!"

She turns her head slowly, afraid of what she is going to see. For a moment she sees short red hair and sharp features, and then the image flickers and blurs and the teacher is standing there glaring at her.

"Allison!" the math teacher barks, "Answer the question!"

The pencil in her hand snaps. Her chair scraps back and she grabs her bag and notes, "I'm not feeling well," she throws the excuse at the teacher.

In the room there are about three other sets of scraping chairs that stop abruptly. Allison's pace quickens, relieved that she might have made a partial head start on Lydia, Stiles and Isaac.

She rounds the corner of the corridor and walks straight into Scott. The werewolf seems dazed and surprised to see her as she straightens, brushing her hair out of her eyes, "Sorry," she rushes out, at the same time as him and they stop, awkwardly. "I'm sorry, I wasn't…"

He shakes his head in that cute way of his, "Don't worry. What are you doing out of class?"

It should occur to her to ask him that same question, but instead she answers him. She doesn't even bother lying, because she knows he would be able to tell. She waves one hand around her head as she tells him, "Ghosts." and his expression is one of complete sympathy.

His gaze drift out past her for a moment and then back in, "We need to talk," he tells her, and that line should give out bad vibes, but instead she just agrees.

"This can't go on," she shakes her head, "I can't… I can't deal with seeing my dead family hanging around twenty-four seven."

"Which is why we need to talk." Scott repeats, "Because I don't think that's our only problem."

Her heart sinks, because it's never going to be easy for them, is it?

"I think there's another werewolf pack here."

***

"An alpha pack?" Lydia asks.

Isaac shakes his head, "We just caught one scent. It might even be an omega."

The pack huddles together in Allison's apartment. Chris Argent is thankfully absent. Lydia sits curled on the sofa, while Scott paces, because it must help him think or something. Stiles isn't really sure. Stiles is lingering by the bookshelf, poking and prodding at various features of the room. Allison and Isaac are perched on the desk, and the only people missing who could argue they had the right to be there would be the twins and their parents. Considering no-one really wants the twins around, and things are generally better to do (especially if they're illegal) if their parents don't know, it remains just the five of them.

Stiles runs his finger along an ornamental blade on the bookshelf. It's sharp, and he draws his hand back with a hiss, sucking away the blood with a wince. "We should really get a better base," Stiles complains, but is ignored as Allison leans forwards.

"Do you think they have anything to do with the ghosts?" she asks, fingers wrapped together. Stiles notices how Isaac shifts slightly, pressed up against her side. He doesn't really care, and he's just thankful the pair aren't as sickly sweet as Allison and Scott had been.

Scott shrugs, "The only way to find out is if we talk to them. We'd have to corner them somewhere."

"They're not going to like that," Stiles sings it out in an up and down rhythm like a song. He draws out the last word and looks around at them. "I mean come on," he says as everyone turns to look at him, "We don't know what they want or how many they are. For all we know they want to kill us all and steal the territory."

Lydia's head spins around to focus on Scott, "Has Derek had problems with rival packs in the past?" she asks.

"Why are you asking me?" Scott's expression is bemused, "Derek doesn't say anything about anything. He just sorta of…" he waves one hand, "Took off…" he finishes weakly.

"Where is Derek anyway?" Allison asks as if she should care, but can't find the emotion to make it sound genuine.

Stiles shrugs, "South America," he answers, remembering the half-garbled text that was Derek Hale meeting technology that he had received. He gets weird looks from the others, who are probably all wondering why he knows and they don't. He ignores their querying faces, because they're incompetents who don't even bother to exchange numbers with the one guy who might have useful information. Other than Deaton, but then that guy seemed to have taken a course in being fucking evasive and cryptic.

That and meeting in the vet's place was really beginning to freak Stiles out. Especially after the last woman who rushed in her Guinea Pig for eating a baby's rattle, a pair of scissors, and an expensive necklace.

People are weird.

"We should get a base," he tells them again, distractedly. Lydia at least hums and nods in agreement, but her head is tilted to one side listening to Allison asking Scott and Isaac about where the other pack might be hanging out.

"We should get a name too," Stiles says, just to see if anyone cares, "I vote for Stiles' Boys."

They're not listening to him. He sighs. For now they'll just have to remain 'The Pack' which at least can be argued is original.

***

Scott hates creeping about in the dark. Not just because he knows his mom worries, when she arrives home from work to find both him and Isaac conspicuously absent, but because he knows he's going to be shattered for school tomorrow, werewolf or not. As if Thursdays weren’t bad enough already…

He's pretty sure he can bribe Lydia into forging excuses for them. Scott isn't quite sure when the red-head became the girl to fake, lie and sometimes batter her eyelids to get the adults to jump to their wishes, but she did it and she did it well.

The street lights shine down, a harsh yellow glare overhead. He wishes that they could creep around in daylight for a change, because nothing good ever happens in the dark.

He considers his pack for a moment, Isaac with his eyes flaring up like most animal eyes did under bright lights at night, Stiles babbling on enthusiastic to Lydia, who stands pretending to listen with her auburn hair blazing around her shoulders. Allison is bending over, adjusting her bow. He'd been wary in bringing the huntress along, because the other pack might see it as a threat. Still, he'd rather be safe than sorry and with Allison watching their backs, everyone felt safer.

"So I'm on the rooftop sniping?" she asks, straightening and meeting his gaze, as if she had been aware of Scott's eyes on her.

He nods, "Then Lydia and I check out the lower town, while Stiles and Isaac head towards the hills."

The boys look a bit put out by that decision, and so Scott continues talking before Isaac can be a twat or Stiles can launch into a rant.

"We just want to talk to them," he says.

"Which is why," Lydia studiously examines her nails, "We didn't invite the twins."

Scott concedes her point. "Great," he claps his hands together, grinning. “Let’s go, team.” Nobody else looks even vaguely happy to be out there, Stiles shivering and Isaac wearing one of his many scarves.

"Dude," Stiles shakes his head, "Your motivational speeches need some work. We're here to stalk out rival wolf packs. Not to treasure hunt."

***

The pack is a weird mix of human and werewolf.

Nate watches from the shadows, wary and cautious. Her own pack had humans in it of course, it was inevitable that some wolf or other would fall in love with a human and bring them into a fold. She had never seen before a pack that was actually made up of more humans than wolves.

It is small too, only five people. She slips back into the alleyway as a pair pass her, the girl who looks like she should be on a fashion magazine cover and the alpha.

The scent of herbs cling to Nate’s skin, and it's a horrible scent that makes her want to hurl but it does its job.

They pass by without even realising she is there.

She's relieved that Lexi and Jethro are safe back at the loft. She doesn't have to worry about them, as long as she knows where they are.

And without worry, without burden, she can be herself for the first time in weeks. Her footsteps are light as she darts after the duo, thrill running in her veins as she follows them on their wild goose chase. She's pretty sure they're searching for her, but there's always the chance they were looking for something else.

Someone else stumbles out of a bar in stilettos. The red-head eyes the drunken woman in distaste, and makes some idle comment on her horrible sense of dress style. The remark passes right over the alpha's head, and he continues to hurry forwards.

The red-head doesn't follow. She stares at the woman who is dabbing at her blotched make-up, sobbing with little hitching breathes. She isn't actually at the point of crying, but her hormones and stress levels are through the roof. Even from where she lingers, one hundred metres down the road hiding behind a parked car, she can smell the alcohol on the woman's breath.

The red-head teenager hasn't moved. Nate strains her ears for a name, because it's easier than calling her the 'red-head'. Her hair isn't even red, it's more of an auburn brown, in the same way her own hair isn't blonde, and more of a honey brown.

"Scott," the girl calls out, regardless of her name. The alpha turns, wary of the low sound of her voice.

"What is it?" and there is tension in his call, as if he knows she's about to say something terrible. "Lydia?"

Nate doesn't need to hear the reply, because she already knows something is wrong. She should have known this night wasn't going to turn out well, and this has only just confirmed it. She backs away, not planning on sticking around to see how this turns out.

She leaves behind a street where the scent of blood permeates the air and in the background a weak trace of sulphur.

This pack is trouble.

She doesn’t want any part of it.

***

The street is quiet, permeated only by the occasional sound of traffic in the distance. It's kind of peaceful in a way, but at the same time it's so unnatural that Lydia immediately feels uneasy.

There are so many things she would rather be doing in preference to this, but she could hardly say no considering her position as the regular pack death omen seeker.

It makes her sound like some sort of cheap thrill seeker and she sniffs, eyeing a drunken woman scrub at her make up.

She's a dyed blonde, Lydia notices, because she picks up on things like that. The dress is shorter than even something she'd wear, and obviously the woman had no style to be partying on a Wednesday night. She also clutches no purse, which means that  despite escaping whatever bar she had exited from, she'll have to return eventually.

The woman leans over, peering in a nearby shop reflection, and her nails rake down her cheek. She lets out a moan, and Lydia's not sure if it is depression or lust talking.

Scott has moved on down the street but as the woman murmurs something he stops and turns to face Lydia, spotting the expression on her face. In a few steps he is back at Lydia's side, and she wants to turn to look at him, but the red-head can't turn away from the woman.

“What is it? Lydia?" he asks.

At that moment the drunken woman's fingers twist to become a mockery of claws. Lydia has seen two woman fight before, and usually her mother fights with words and snide comments, but she has seen clenched fists and nails extended to scratch skin. Boys are quite right when they literally call it a catfight. Yet Lydia had never before seen one turn their sharp nails onto themselves before.

The woman's nails are painted red, and so Lydia doesn't notice at first when red stains them an even darker shade. Instead Scott lurches forwards, nostrils flaring.

"What the hell is she doing?" he whispers, then falls silent and as the woman lets out a sob.

And the worst thing is Lydia can hear her. Not just the broken sobs of "Not pretty, not beautiful enough for him," but something else. She can hear it, something forming words, and it echoes in the corners of her mind, but when it comes to her to say them, it dries up, screams from the shadows and her own nails dig into her palms.

"Oh my god," Scott jolts towards the woman after the first claw down her face. Lydia has seen what damage wolf claws could do, and she never quite imagined that human nails could do the same. The nails are long, possibly even fake, for with a snap one breaks, lodging in the skin.

The woman lets out a frustrated half-scream, falling to her knees, her eyes fixed on her reflection in the glass. Her fingers dig in at the forehead and then rake down, the skin stark pale under the pressure, and then blossoming into red scratches. In the few places she has managed to break the skin blood wells up like tears that weep down her face.

She reaches up again for another attempt, still mumbling incoherent words. Scott reaches her and grabs her hands and she screams again, struggling away.

Lydia is frozen in horror, walking stiffly towards where Scott grips the woman's wrists in an almost bruising grip. He has dropped to his knees in front of her and the woman twists her body, trying to see her reflection.

"No!" she screams, wrenching her one hand out of Scott's grip so harshly that Lydia thinks she might snap it, just in her struggle to get away, "No I need to be pretty! Please, let me be pretty!" the free hand reaches up for her face, and before Scott can grab her she sinks her nails into her eyes.

Lydia stops, mouth open silently as Scott grabs her hand, pulling it away. The blonde woman looks around wildly, and her one eye is now bloated and red, weeping tears that mix with blood on her face.

"Oh god, please stop," Scott is reassuring her, stopping her from hurting herself more, "Please don't… Lydia!" he calls, "Lydia call 911?"

"And tell them what?" she finds her voice, just in time to be indignant, "Some random woman on the street is trying to claw her own face off?" she hisses. Still she pulls out her phone, because it feels good to do something and she rings Stiles.

The dial tone doesn't start up, and when Lydia looks again the signal is dead. Stupidly not thinking she tries again, but it's still dead. The signal is dead when it should be at least four bars. It’s the centre of town, the signal is never dead here.

Scott looks up and once again the woman tries to jerk out of his grip. He grits his teeth, snarling as she struggles in his grasp. It shouldn't be that difficult to keep her down, but she seems as if for all purposes to not care, bucking and writhing, leaning away from his grip as if it is poisonous.

Pounding footsteps send Lydia reeling the same time the woman screams again. Allison appears from whatever high rise she had been staking out, bow in hands.

"Let me go!" the woman screams, lashing out and her elbow clips Scott in the eye, and he lets go startled. It's only for a few seconds, but it's all the woman needs to reach up, nails gauging into the rivulets already carved onto her face.

"Knock her out!" Allison calls, jogging up, "Just knock her out for god's sake!" she skids to a halt next to Lydia, and Scott looks around wildly for a moment unsure of what to do.

The huntress does it. She must have seen their predicament from the rooftops, as she stalks forwards decisively, and sliding her hand through the woman's hair and kneels, at the same time bringing the woman's head crashing down on the pavement.

She goes limp.

***

Scott can barely see the blood of the head wound amongst the rest of the blood from the scratch marks down her face. Some are merely puffy, where the nails didn't break the skin, but the one eye is crying tears. He drops her hands and shifts backwards, away from the unknown woman.

"What the hell?" Lydia stands there looking the same way he feels. "I thought we came here to hunt a werewolf pack," she stage-whispers angrily.

Allison stands, and she offers out a helping hand to Scott. He doesn't take it, and Allison doesn't take offense. "She was clawing her eyes out," the huntress observes, curling her lip although whether in disgust or confusion Scott can't tell. Once upon a time Allison used to be an open book to him, but somewhere between then and now the book had been slammed closed.

"She said she wanted to be pretty," Lydia whispers, "She wanted to be pretty…" he head tilts to one side, as if listening to something only she can hear.

Allison bends down to check her pulse, "She's still breathing… one of us should call an ambulance."

Lydia shakes her head, "The signal is gone. It’s…" she stops, staring at something over Scott's shoulder. The hair on the back of his neck prickles. "Don't turn around," she whispers, and Scott listens, trying to hear beyond the silence. "There's someone watching us." Lydia’s voice drops to a loud whisper and her gaze is frozen, petrified as if turned to stone.

Allison is facing Lydia as well, and she uses her body as a shield to draw her bow up, an arrow already notched in the string. It’s one of those fancy ones, and Scott recognises the flare shot. The huntress tightens her grip, her left arm relaxing as she draws back with her right slightly.

"Doing what?" Scott asks, not daring to turn around. If anything he’s preparing to cover up his ears before he’s deafened by her flare arrow. There are several more in her quiver, in preparation of herding the rival pack if need be, along with some ordinary shafts. It’s archaic, shooting werewolves with a bow and arrows, but they can’t heal until their pull the shafts out. Bullets on the other hand don’t do much damage and even Scott has to agree that a bow is far less illegal (and dangerous) that a gun toting Allison Argent.

"He’s… just watching." Lydia stares past him. She barely mouths the words, but Scott hears her clearly.

Evidently Allison does as well because she spins around and in one fluid movement, she sights and lets aim. Her flare flies high along the street and the shadow at the far end doesn't move, as it completes its arc. Scott turns to watch as it flare out, hands on his ears as the man waits, watching them calmly. He’s been there a while, Scott can tell from his pose, slouched and relaxed.

Which means he’s been watching them since they arrived… he’s seen them with the woman and he had done nothing.

The light dies, along with the whining screech that makes Scott's ears ring. He knows that somewhere Stiles and Isaac will hear it, the latter at least, and they'll be on their way here.

The arrow drops into the dark and he can see the figure clearly now, just as clearly at the guy can see them. It's obviously a guy, tall and lanky with wide shoulders that are silhouetted against the spot light for a moment before he steps back into shadow.

"Go," Allison breathes, but Scott's already burst into a run. His form blurs slightly as he moves after the man, werewolf, what-ever monster it is that is stalking his streets in his territory.

It’s not far, a couple of hundred metres down the road past parked cars and closed shop windows. The man is out of sight and a snarl builds in his chest as he slows down to skid around the corner of where he disappeared.

He half expects the man to be gone, running as far away as possible but he’s not. Scott stops sharply as he sees the dead alleyway, wall at the end and dustbins littered at the side. A small restaurant backs out onto the alley; its doors shut and locked up at two in the morning. At the far end the man stands with his back to them, looking at the wall. He could probably leap that if he was a wolf, but instead he just stands there.

Waiting, Scott realises as Allison catches up, and shortly behind her Lydia, somehow managing to keep up in high heels. The trio don't move from the entrance to the alleyway, because for all they know it's a trap. Allison draws up her bow, breathing heavily as she flanks Scott, while Lydia remains behind him to one side.

"Who are you?" Scott demands.

The man's shoulder's slump, and with great deliberation he turns around. His features are shadows, but his hair is blonde, spiked up and his lips are twisted into a smirk. "Well you've got me," the man turns, an exaggerated sigh. "Watcha goin' to do now?" he spreads out his arms.

"What did you do to that woman?" Scott threatens, stalking forwards. His eyes flash red. Allison's bow string creaks as she draws it back further, arm straining to hold the position.

The man just laughs and he cracks his neck as if preparing for a fight, and then rolls his shoulders, arms swinging loosely by his side. "Think, that's gonna’ scare me, dog?" the man sneers and the last word is a deliberate insult. He clicks his tongue, "Aren't you a bit young to be out this late at night…?" he grins, and skips forwards a step and a half. "There could monsters out," he whispers.

"Like you," Allison bites out behind Scott.

"I'm a monster?" The man grins, baring his teeth and his head tilts to one side unnaturally, "Then what does that make you?" he asks, and Scott's throat is dry as the man blinks, and when his eyes open again, they burn, yellow and black mottled together. "I told you there were monsters out."


	11. Grace Burns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to Sam and Dean's little side-arc where they get to deal with some angels. I love what SPN has done with the angels in their little factions and I wish we could see more of it. The one thing I don't like about the SPN angels is that the names have strayed quite far from your typical angels names, so I have the chance here to play around a little and use some nice names.

"So what's on today on angel TV central?" Dean kicks open the door to the house they are currently 'staying' at, awkwardly balancing cheap diner food on one arm, while holding two coffees in his hands and still managing to have room for a bag that looks like it holds doughnuts.

Sam cracks his knuckles and leans back against the rotting sofa. On the table in front of him the laptop is open; the screen separated into four separate moving images that regularly shift at times, the cameras giving them an extensive layout of the building the angels had claimed. "Well, the one angel learnt how to do a crosswords and taught his friend. Uh… Jael I think, and Ariel."

"The little mermaid?" Dean sniffs, "Huh."

Sam doesn't even bother correcting his brother. Instead he rolls out the aches from his shoulders and leans forwards, peering at the laptop screen. "Beyond that: nothing," he shrugs, and stands as Dean proceeds to trip over a torn piece of carpeting, the coffee tilting dangerously. Sam relieves his brother of his burden, and snatches up his food along with the bag of doughnuts. Dean doesn't notice as he kicks out at the offending piece of material.

"Goddamn it," he curses, "This is why I hate squatting." he complains. Sam doesn't really have a reply so he instead digs into his food. Dean casts one look at the rotting sofa, before probably deciding the germ count was too high for his delicate sensitivities and pulling out their green cool box to perch on.

The older Winchester reaches out one hand and spins the laptop around. Sam tries to protest, but the salad leaves in his mouth make that a challenge as Dean observes the various views of angel headquarters. "We've been here two weeks," he complains, as Sam grabs his laptop back. "And the most interesting thing that’s happened is the pair who got laid in the elevator."

"I can't believe you watched that." Sam grumbles, swallowing a mouthful.

"Dude. It's free porn." Dean delves into his own food and for a moment the brothers are absorbed in eating. Eventually though Dean swallows and drops the empty napkin into the box. "So this is what we've come to," he sighs, "Stalking out angels."

"At least they were easy to find," Sam comments.

Dean scoffs, "Yeah? All we had to do was find a bunch of stiff suit wearing dudes with silver swords."

"And they all congregated in the nearest religious workplace," Sam adds, "That helped."

The blonde nods, sipping his coffee. "Reckon these angels are part of Bart's faction?"

"Bart?" Sam blinks stupidly for a moment, "The Simpson?"

Dean looks floored and then shakes his head, "Bartholomew. Buddy Boyle? Let your angel in? Remember?"

The brunette nods, "Why do you insist on giving angels nicknames?" he asks, rhetorically. "Anyway, it’s all part of the same company, some extensive branch that they’ve set up across the country. Why? Does that…" he stops at movement on the screen. In the lower right hand corner an angel is leaving the building, determined and focussed. Sam doesn't recognise her, and he'd been tapping into the audio to try and remember all of the various angels and their names. "We've got movement down on Main Street," he says, as Dean leans over almost over toppling, and Sam relents, turning the laptop to face him.

"Where's she going?" Dean asks.

Sam grins. "Wanna’ find out?"

***

In the crowded street it should be easy to mingle with the masses.

Not when your name is Sam Winchester and you stand at six foot four. He is forced to walk hunched over and examining the ground studiously as if he's picking up change that can be found littering the sidewalk. Next to him Dean manages slightly better, moving determinedly through the crowd and managing to keep an eye on the angel ahead of them. Her hair is a honey-brown, shoulder length and curling at her shoulders. Whatever the vessel had worn previously has been discarded in favour of the typical black suit the angels favoured. Even the style and cut looks the same, and Sam wonders where the angels go to in order to buy clothing.

The crowd hurrying along the sidewalk almost part around her at her fast pace, not stopping for anything. She twists and turns down streets and side streets and at one point Dean pulls up sharply.

"I've lost her," he hisses to Sam in frustration.

"No," Sam spots the brown hair hurrying away, "There she is…" Dean follows his gaze, as she hurries up some steps to a museum of some sort. Banners flutter outside, advertising a travelling exhibition which is visiting the town.

The doors swing shut on her and for a moment they mill about at the bottom of the steps. "I don't get it," Sam says, "If they're looking for an angel's grace… why is she visiting the museum?"

His brother looks clueless, and Sam looks around for anything that could potentially be demonic or angelic. All he sees is the dark clouds that have been sitting over them since their arrival. There is definitely a demon in town, even if there had been no suspicious murders and the few disappearances they had looked into were all runaway teenagers that turned up after a few days.

The banner waves in the breeze, and Sam takes a moment to read it. The exhibition is about King Arthur, and some artefacts are being boasted as having originated all the way from Wales, Britain. Had he still been a kid with wild dreams and a love of knowledge he would have been begging Dean to see it.

"Should we go inside?" Dean looks slightly disgusted by the idea.

"Give it ten minutes," Sam says, "Then we go in."

"And what?" Dean hisses, "It's a public place, Sam! Anyway, what were we going to do? Go up to her and ask her if she's seen any demons about lately!?" his voice rises and a passing mother skirts her child around him, shooting Dean a glare.

Sam is suddenly conscious of his surroundings and he drops down a step, putting him and Dean at roughly equal height since Sam grew taller than his older brother at seventeen.

"We don't even know what we're looking for," he tells his brother, "The last grace of an angel we found was meant to be a giant tree, and then it turned out that someone had already bottled it up. For all we know they've already got a little bottle of grace and it's tucked away somewhere!"

Dean looks alarmed by that, as if it is Cas himself locked away somewhere. There are times Sam thinks Dean worries too much for the thousand year old angel. "Come on," the older Winchester spins around. He makes for the door to the museum, "Let's go and talk to this angel. Get some answers that aren't from Crowley."

Sam has to admit that his brother has a point (especially considering they haven’t heard from Crowley since the demon sent them here), and he opens his mouth to reply, before realising that Dean isn't even there. He's arguing with the guy at the door about "What do you mean we have to pay?" and with a sigh he climbs the remaining steps and pulls out his wallet.

***

Once inside, the air is cool and the lighting dim. Fossils and lumps of rock line the walls along with life size models of civil war soldiers and romans. For a moment the brothers mill in the entrance, Dean muttering about robbery while Sam contemplates how they're going to find the angel in this place among so many people.

He's just debating whether it would be worth it attempting to get into the security room to use the CCTV feeds, when Dean elbows him.

"There," he nods towards a side room where the King Arthur exhibit is all set up. The brunette stands staring at a glass case, filled with ornamental cutlery and jugs, her posture unnaturally stiff and awkward.

They stride towards her, and a teenager skips out of their way looking freaked. There are times Sam wishes he was slightly less imposing.

His older brother reaches one hand into his jacket pocket, and Sam knocks into him with his shoulder. Dean casts him a 'what the fuck?' look, and Sam glares back. They're here to talk, not to stab the angel with an angel blade in the middle of a public place.

So instead his hand drops as the pair shift awkwardly for a moment behind the angel. An elderly lady glares at them as she is forced to move around them, and Sam clears his throat. The angel's shoulder’s tense up slightly.

"Sam and Dean Winchester," the angel doesn't turn from where she is diligently reading an exhibition board.

"Uh… hello?" the good thing, Sam thinks, about being famous in Heaven, Hell and Purgatory, is that you never have to introduce yourself. To be honest through he's starting to miss that.

She turns and regards them with wide blue eyes. She's shorter than him (then again most people are) and has to look up to them, but the way she blinks makes it seem as if she is looking down on them. "My name is Amitiel." she greets, "Can I help you with anything?"

Sam swallows, and Dean too, looks more alarmed that the angel doesn't want them dead. He thinks it's more shocking, the peaceful manner of her talk, than it would be if she shouted insults and came after them in the middle of public waving her sword around.

"We just wanted to ask you a few questions," he says gently. "That's all."

"Then ask," she doesn't seem very familiar with humans, and obviously hasn't been down here very often.

"Did it hurt?" Dean interrupts, and takes his opportunity with a wide grin.

Amitiel blinks at him, "Did what hurt?" she asks, earnestly, and slightly worried.

"When you fell from Heaven?" Sam pulls a face and Dean's smile drops, "Okay, sorry that was inappropriate."

Which is just as well became Amitiel look murderous, "My wings burnt," she hisses, "Hundreds of us died!" Her shoulders are stiff as she glares at him, “Heaven is lost to us and my brethren are split, divided! The factions are at each other’s throats. The whole place is chaos, especially after Castiel killed Bartholemew.” Dean raises his hands placating her, and Sam thinks they really need to catch up with their friend.

"Sorry," Dean says, unable to think of what else to say.

A gaggle of school children pass by, and they fall silent. Amitiel watches them with a soft look in her eyes. "Humanity is beautiful," she whispers, "And we love it, as we were ordered to, but to be thrown down here the way we were…" she stops speaking, and Sam is suddenly reminded that Heaven was their home, and that this was the same as kicking out a kid to fend for themselves. Admittedly most of the kids were millennia old, but still the way they acted sometimes…

"We heard you were looking for something," Sam says, taking charge of the conversation. "The demons are after it too."

"We know," Amitiel isn't impressed by their attempt to help.

"Listen, Amy," Dean's already managed to nickname her, "It's not just demons. Abaddon's been raising fallen angels."

Amy scoffs. "Abaddon is dead," she replies scornfully.

Sam shakes his head, ducking down slightly so he is more her level. "Abaddon is alive," he says earnestly. "And just one month ago we almost got killed Belial."

With one short sharp shake of her head Amy denies it all, "They're dead." she emphasises, "Or locked away. And even if they weren't, Winchester, of what consequence are they to me? Why do you warn me of them? After all the angels you've killed?"

Dean steps back, almost walks into someone and steps forwards again, voice dropping in a loud whisper, "Look," he hisses, "The demons are after the same thing you are. And they'll kill you for it. If you let us help you…"

Sam knows already this isn't going to work. Amitiel looks at them pitying and full of condensation, "And what is it?" she interrupts, "What is it we're meant to be looking for?" her head tilts like a bird, and she blinks.

"You know damn well what!" Dean bursts out, and he receives a few weird looks. He glances about frustrated, and gestures with his hands a little for emphasis, "Look, we want to get you guys back to Heaven and break Metatron's spell just as much as you do, but destroying Cas' grace isn't the way to go!"

"Grace?" she asks them, confusion and shock in her voice, "You think we're…" she stops, and laughs derisively, "We're not looking for grace." she scoffs slightly, shaking her head.

Sam startles, straightening slightly, "You're not?" he asks, "Then… what's the energy signature?"

Amy looks between them, staring long and hard at their faces before telling them; "Stay out of this, Winchesters," she warns, "We don't appreciate or need your help. Not after what you two did to Michael and Lucifer." And she pushes past them, and they let her go. She spins back to them, "And thanks," she adds, "For the warnings about the demons. But we already knew." Then she turns smartly around and stalks out of the room.

Sam can see a security guard eying them warily, and he throws up his hands in frustration, spinning back to his brother. "Great." Dean says. "Just great." he sounds about annoyed as Sam feels. "Well that worked brilliantly."

"I don't get it, though," Sam shrugs, "She said they weren't looking for grace. Does that mean they're wrong, or Crowley is?"

"Which one do we trust more huh?" Dean asks the hard question with no obvious answer.

Sam clenches his fists, spinning slightly on the spot with nervous energy. His gaze alights on the exhibit information Amitiel had been reading. There is a picture of an ornamental chalice on the board.

Sam's breathe catches in his throat.

"Dean, we're not looking for an angel's grace," he whispers.

“Well duh. Amy told us that much at least.

“No…” Sam shakes his head, “We’re not looking for grace. We’re looking for that.” When Dean turns to him he wordlessly points towards the picture.

It takes his brother only a few seconds to realise what Sam has. He whistles.

"Indiana Jones is going to be so jealous."

***

Amitiel walks briskly down the street, her shoes clicking on the sidewalk. She is considering what the Winchesters had told her, and then pushes it away flippantly. Nobody wants to be seen working with the Winchesters, unless you want to end up dead or shamed, or forever labelled a rebel without a cause like Castiel.

They treated her like she was a friend, defiling her name and attempting to reason with her like she was a human.

She isn't.

She turns a corner and pauses. The street ahead of her is full of parked cars and nobody in sight. She's meant to be meeting Jael, to share their news, and she’s brimming because after a week of tracking down everything in this city, she thinks she’s finally found it. The venture Kamael sent her on paid off, even if it had warranted an unwelcome meeting with the Winchesters. She's going to have to report they're in town, and the rest of the faction based here are going to have to keep an eye on them.

Jael should be here by now. She glances at her watch for the time, although it's unnecessary. Angels can time keep perfectly and he is never late. Slowly she walks down the street, and invisibly her broken wings uncoil from her shoulders warily. It hurts, and she wants nothing more than to spread them wide and to fly away, but the bones are shattered from the fall, the feathers burnt, and it takes so much energy just to raise them up with the last shred of her grace wrapped around them.

There is a body between two parked cars.

Jael's vessel is empty, and blood pools from a stab wound to the gut. The blood can barely be seen on the black suit, and his body is outlined with the last burn of his grace. There should be wing shadows spread eagled across the parked cars and tarmac, but there isn't enough left of their wings even for that.

Her grace tremors, shivering at something dark and she turns suddenly, preparing to leave.

"Hello Amy." the person standing behind her says, voice rich like dark chocolate and just as bitter.

Her broken wings shudder as she finally sees fully the blackness behind her. The white-blue of her grace trembles.

The vessel behind her is a red-headed woman, and the blackness within her is so dark and overwhelming Amitiel can barely tell who this is, wrapped up inside the host like a cat, languidly curled within a narrow space, sharp claws just waiting to pounce.

"Abaddon," she realises. She's heard stories, all of them have, of the angels who fell with Lucifer. So many died fighting for Heaven and so many more were injured so badly they still bear the scars today.

The Winchesters were right, she thinks, as the red-head smirks at her, looking mildly surprised.

"How nice," the demon drawls, "Were you expecting me?"

Amitiel folds her wings, unconsciously making herself as small as possible, "What do you want?" she asks, taking a step backwards. Her grace flares up in warning and Abaddon just laughs, a hollow sound. It's like some sort of challenge, because she could try to kill her, to burn the demon smoke from the vessel, but it's not going to do much good.

Abaddon isn’t just an ordinary demon.

"Nothing you can give me," the fallen says, poison dripping off her words like honey.

Amy should bargain, she should offer up her leaders, her comrades, Sam and Dean Winchester wrapped up on a plate with ribbons… anything to keep her life. "I don't know where it is," she says instead, lying to her last breath, "And even if I did…"

"You wouldn't tell me," Abaddon sighs, "So predictable," she sounds bored, and she draws a blade from the inner pocket of her leather jacket.

Amy startles backwards, curling her tattered wings inwards, "Please…" it slips out and she pulls out her own blade at the same time, "I don't know anything," she reiterates.

The demon presses her lips together in a disappointed smile, "You see that's a shame," she lunges forwards. Blades clash violently as Amitiel draws her own sword. For a moment it holds out against Abaddon’s own stolen blade, but then with a twist the demon knocks Amitiel’s sword aside. She follows that up with a sweep of her blade. It arcs across, cutting through the vessel's flesh and her own grace with ease. Amy lets out a pained cry.

A hand latches around her wrist and with a quick twist her sword falls to the floor. It clatters and rolls out of sight. Abaddon kicks out at her legs, knocking her over. She’s caught by the demons’ hand, gripped in her collar that has her at Abaddon’s mercy. Amy snarls, pressing her palm against the demon's chest and forcing her grace to burn. Beneath her palm she feels the black coils of power, tainted with blood and sulphur. The smoke rolls around unbothered, not even simmered.

"Just can't get it up any more, can you?" Abaddon leans in closely, the silver blade pressed sharply against the gash already made through grace and flesh. It feels like Amy is splitting open, being torn apart by the sharp metal of the sword. She flinches away weakly, "Your wings aren't the only thing that's broken, huh angel?" the fallen smirks, like a predator that has her prey cornered and caught. All she has left to do is feast.

"The museum!" Amy clenches her hand uselessly, struggling away from the black shadows that loom within the body in front of her. “It’s at the museum!”

Abaddon just laughs and her eyes flash black. "There," she whispers in Amy's ear. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” The angel blade in Abaddon's hands glints and then with one smooth jerk, she tears the blade right through the torn remains of Amitiel's grace.

Her body falls to the ground, grace blackening around it, without even the shadow of wings around the body to signify what she once was.

***

“I don’t believe you, Sam.”

“It makes sense!” Sam pours over the notes he’s scrawled down already. “I mean… just think of what an object of such power can do! The angels or demons… if they get their hand on this…”

“But _come on_ ,” Dean paces around the house they are squatting in. “The Holy Grail? Dude I think that’s a little extreme, even for us.”

“Why not?” Sam shrugs, hands out as he runs through the data in his head, “There’s that exhibit that rolled into town three weeks ago. Crowley said that’s when the energy signal spiked. He shows up expecting there to be a jawbone blade, and instead he finds angels and demons out on a pissing contest to get an item of value.”

“An item of value? You call a cup that men are willing to get their throats torn out by a killer rabbit an item of value?”

Sam pulls a face, “Dude, that’s Monty Python. Focus.”

“I am focussed! You’re saying that the angels aren’t looking for Cas’ grace, which is good, but instead they’re looking for an chalice so they can get drunk instead and that’s bad?” Dean narrows his eyes at Sam and the younger brother takes his cue to start talking again.

“It might not even be a cup. It could be a dish, or stone, or even a rock. The ideology of it being a cup is modern mostly. A grail is actually a bowl usually made of wood or stone…”

“Sam,” Dean sounds fed up of him geeking out over this, but the younger Winchester doesn’t stop.

“Over time the idea of a holy grail has been confused with the holy chalice. Some people say it was the cup Jesus drank with at the Last Supper, while others think it was used to collect his life blood at the crucifixion. Then again wine symbolised blood, and blood is wine so they’re both really much the same. It’s usually associated with a spear that pierced him in the side, called the Bleeding Lance.”

“Wait…” Dean interrupts him and Sam obediently stops to catch his breath, “The Lance… wasn’t that owned by some guy called Longinus?”

Sam wonders how the hell Dean knows this. “A roman soldier,” he confirms. “It’s also called the Spear of Destiny.”

Dean sits down abruptly. “Fuck.” He curses. “That… holy crap…” his jaws works for a little bit.

“What?” Sam frowns, “Dean, get it out man.”

“That’s at the bunker,” his brother tells him. “There is a box, with tonnes of paper crap about this roman guy called Longinus, and there is a wooden stick in that box. A wooden stick, labelled ‘the Spear of Destiny’. With capital letters.”

Sam gapes at him.

Dean nods. “Yeah. Exactly.”


	12. Night of the Hunter

Allison tightens her grip on her bow. The string doesn't waver in her gloved grip. She keeps it pointed, arrow level with the man's heart.

He's a werewolf. He must be to have eyes that glow yellow like that, but the black that seeps into it makes it seem otherworldly. The smile on his face is confident, and without fear. She wonders why, if he really is the entity who manipulated a woman into clawing her own face off, then why aren't his eyes a sharp, electric blue?

Why are they still yellow?

"What are you doing here?" Scott's words are laced with an alpha’s power and he growls low in his throat. His features have blurred to their usual wolfish morph, and his eyes blaze red.

The man spins around on one foot, casually shrugging. Allison shifts her bow to keep the arrow pointing at him and her arm trembles from the effort to hold the string in place.

"The usual," he says, "Checking stuff out. Meetin' up with old… _friends_ …" he sneers the word, and then stops, considering them. He glances down to one side, neck twisted at an odd angle as he looks to the concrete tarmac beneath him.

"What did you do to that woman?" Allison threatens him.

" _I_ didn't _do_ anything!" he protests, but his tone is full of sarcasm, as if he knows exactly what happened and why but isn't saying.

"You’re a werewolf!" Scott snarls, but looks unsure about that statement, "You’re an omega… where's your alpha?"

The man doubles up, a laugh bubbling out of his throat like lava. "Alpha?" he snarls, and his eyes blaze yellow for an instance before he blinks them back to brown. He takes an angry step forwards, "You little…" he stops himself, frustrated. "You're out of your depth," he says instead, shaking his head.

"You're on our territory," Scott growls, and Allison takes her cue, letting the arrow fly. The man doesn't move, and it passes by his face with inches to spare. It hits the wall and dents itself into the mortar but finding no purchase falls to the ground with a clatter. The yellow-eyed man just quirks his lip, as if amused by the feeble attempt to harm him. Scott moves forwards, sleek and dangerous. His hands flash out to the sides, claws extended.

There is a deep growl from something in the shadows ahead of them. Scott stops walking and the man laughs again.

"You really have no clue, do you? So how about this puppies? Wanna’ meet a real dog?" he grins, and then throws up his hand. "Sic 'em, boys!"

Another horrible growl rings out and something moves forwards, cloaked in shadows. Allison draws another arrow and aims, but there is nothing to fire at. The shadows shift across the ground and for a moment she sees the outline of a giant dog shape, and she lets the string slip from her fingers.

There is a yelp as the arrow collides with the moving shadow, piercing it as if the shape there is solid. The head of the shaft is no longer visible, and from where it clings to the blurred shape something black drips from mid-air like ink weeping from the pages of a book. The whine turns into a bitter bark that sends fear running through her, as if it is branding itself onto her very bones.

"So how. About. You _run_." the man enunciates them calmly. The invisible monster's bark turns into a howl that Allison is more accustomed to hearing on a hound dog, just before it's about to catch its prey.

And Scott, Lydia and Allison… they are the prey.

***

Nate slams the door to the apartment on the howls. There is something ancient and old and powerful about them. The scent of fire and brimstone sits heavy on the air. She swallows down her hysteria, squashing it down because Lexi will smell the fear on her, in her breath and clinging to her skin, along with the distant scent of blood.

She closes her eyes and slips down to the floor, the door at her back. She thinks about stalking the other pack through the night, and about the woman and her rising hysteria, her panic and lust for beauty.

A door slams above her and she springs to her feet in one swift movement, throwing back the emotional mask and plastering a grin to her face.

"Yo Nate!" Jethro calls down to her from the upper floor. He's hopping around on crutches, looking pale and weak but otherwise happy and energetic. "Please tell me you brought back food."

She trots up the stairs and slips her bag off her shoulder. She considers throwing it at him, but there are dark shadows under his eyes and a cold quality to his skin. She relents, and props her knee up against a window, pulling out a bag of fries.

"Oh my god, Natalie I love you," he worships, reaching out for them. She waves the bag away, glaring silently. "Nate," he corrects with an exaggerated eye roll. "Nate, the wonderful and amazing…" she shoves them into his hands just to shut him up. He almost overbalances, but with his elbow propped up on his crutches and leaning against the wall he delves one hand into the paper bag and brings out a greasy handful of chips. Fries: as they call them in America. She had narrowly avoided walking out of the shop with a packet of crisps.

Nate turns away, to avoid the spectacle of Jethro eating. "Want ketchup?" she offers, gazing distractedly out of the window. There are sirens wailing, and she thinks that one of the other pack members must have called an ambulance. She hopes they got out and away from whatever demon was stalking the night time streets.

There is a brief flicker of guilt but she squashes it down, dropping the ketchup in the bag of fries and moving past the teenager to where Lexi is still awake, reading under a lamp.

In her emotional turmoil Nate doesn't think much about Jethro, standing outside the room. She certainly doesn't think about what creature he might be, or what species he's a crossbreed of.

And she certainly doesn't remember that the dark haired boy can read minds.

***

Allison and Scott can't see them.

It’s like their positions are reversed. Standing in the darkness of the alley mouth, Lydia can see the monsters, while the trio are the ones who whisper with the ghosts.

She doesn’t know which is better. She’s pretty sure that the huntress can’t see the monsters at all beyond a shadowy blur; just enough to hit the beast with an arrow. She imagines that at most, Scott can only see a hazy outline.

Then again they aren't banshees.

Not that she really knows what being a banshee entails beyond the whole death seeing stuff.

And obviously observing monsters in their true form as well…

She can see the mass of the great beast, like some sort of demonic pit bull. It's built like a dog, but looks nothing like one. Its flesh is non-existent and instead the muscles, tendons and bones are exposed to the night air like an anatomy dissection. She can smell it too… and the smell makes her want to choke. It smells like blood, but the scent is rotted and sticky, cloying. It sticks in her throat until she’s drowning in it, wanting to gag but there is nothing to cough up.

The creature bares its teeth, and it has two sets of jaws. She doesn't think that should be possibly, but the monster has so many rows of black silver fangs as it's maw gapes open, it's the only thing to explain it.

The eyes are dead, a milky white that rolls and then sights unnervingly on them. It stalks forwards and leaves bloody footprints in its wake.

It stops when Allison shoots it, the arrow piercing it's shoulder. It yelps, twisting, and Lydia stumbles away as the shoulder wrenches, shifting out of place. She can hear the grind of the bones; see the shape morph until its head can snap around to tear the arrow free.

The monster hound barks and the man laughs.

"So how. About. You run." he suggests, and Lydia follows that advice, stumbling backwards because she doesn't dare turn away from the monster. The bark turns into a howl and there is the sound of another arrow whipping through the air before Allison turns tail and legs it. Scott stands alone for a moment, and then figures the rest of his pack is probably right and follows.

They stagger out of the dead-end street and into the light of the road. There is the whine of a car engine as Allison draws out another arrow, aiming but she's not even looking in the right place.

"Two o'clock!" Lydia screams at her, as the hound comes barrelling out of the alleyway, its joints clicking as it moves, like some sort of demonic insect. Its throat convulses, blood running down its chin like saliva.

The arrow flies true as Allison adjusts her target accordingly. She's shooting blind, but it hits home, piercing the throat. The beast lets out a gurgling cry, it's bones and joints shifting again as it struggles to remove the offending object. Its wet scream turns into a shrieking howl and in the distance there are more barks.

Headlights blind Lydia as an approaching car skids to a halt in front of her. She stupidly recognises Stiles’ jeep as the brakes screech and the door is thrown open. The hound is yelping, its body shifting and black gore flying out as its jaws snap and snarl. With the beast distracted, the trio move away from it, towards the jeep.

"Get in!" Isaac shouts at them, and then proceeds to scramble out of the way. They really need a better getaway car, Lydia thinks, as she clambers as fast as possible in and over the seat into the back, falling on top of Isaac. Allison follows and Lydia almost gets her eye poked out by the bow as Scott slams the door closed.

"Floor it! Go, go, go!" he shouts and Stiles obediently slams his foot down on the accelerator. In the back Lydia, Allison and Isaac struggle to sit, and it's virtually impossible, their shoulders and hips clashing. Allison eventually slumps on Isaac's lap while Lydia curls awkwardly next to them. Allison’s weapon is resting across their laps, half on the floor and half on the seat.

"What the fuck?" Stiles shouts at them as he spins the wheel violently around, "What the hell _was_ that?"

"There's something… the guy… the beta… he set something on us."

"It's a dog," Lydia speaks up, "A giant hellish dog." She over enunciates to make herself heard over the dreadful roar of Stiles' jeep. She wonders where Allison left her car, and thinks it would have been much more comfortable than this. Something slides on the floor and she realises it's the books they bought the other day, still squashed onto the floor.

"A dog?" Isaac leans around Allison, "That sounded like another pack!"

"He set them on us," Scott snaps, "There was just one and then Allison shot it and it freaking howled…"

"Oh my god," Allison's hands fly to her mouth, "What about the woman? Turn around… we have to get that woman…"

"The one bleeding on the sidewalk?" Stiles asks, "Haha, no, we're not going back. We called 911 for her!"

"And when the ambulance gets there?" Scotts shouts, at the same moment Lydia demands. "But there's no signal."

Stiles waves his phone around, and then drops it as he slams on the brakes for a traffic light. The light is red and Lydia wants to roll her eyes, because of course the idiot stops for traffic when they have giant monster hounds on their tail. "There’s signal now." Stiles says, observing the non-existent other traffic. Next to her Isaac mumbles something about there being a time and a place for safe driving but it’s muffled by Allison’s hair.

"But the hounds are back there!" Scott shouts, pointing a finger over his shoulder towards the back window, "What are we going to do about them! You can't even _see_ them! They'll rip the town apart."

"The _town_?" Allison repeats, "You're worried about the _town_?" she sounds indignant. "Don't you get it?! Those hounds aren't being set on the town. They're being set on _us_! We're the prey. They're _hunting_ us."

And in the distance something shrieks in a blood curling howl.

***

Nate's thoughts roll over and over and they taste sour, full of worry and panic. There's an edge to them though, that is sharp and cold, like ice, and it takes Jethro longer than it should understand that. Once he realises though, he knows what he's got to do.

Nate is scared. And not just for the three of them, but for the pack that are out there right now.

Because of the demon that is out there right now.

He acts as if he doesn't know, just as Nate wants him to act, ignorant of the evil outside the door. But Jethro is patient. Jethro can wait.

Nate might want to hide away like a coward while people die but he can't.

Like all dogs the two sisters settle down after a good meal. It’s a bad comparison, because wolves are nothing like dogs, not really, but nonetheless it’s less than half an hour later than Lexi and Nate are in deep sleep. The pair had been up all night, Nate creeping around town and Lexi awake in worry for her sister, Jethro snoozing and occasionally trying to keep his eyes open to keep her company. Now the pair are now dead to the world. Nate's head twitches as his crutches click across the concrete to the stairs, but he makes it out of the door before she awakens.

The stairs are harder to navigate, and he's already sweating heavily by the time he makes it to the ground floor. He would kiss the ground, if not for the fact he doesn't think he'll manage to get back up again afterwards.

Outside the sun is barely poking over the horizon, and the bustling town has not yet awoken. He’s relieved, because to be hit with the loud barrage and the general chaos of people's thoughts would be overwhelming for him. Recently it's been quiet, just Nate and Lexi and the two werewolf girl are usually blank spots on his senses, if not for the occasional emotion which drifts out from them like a flagrance of perfume. Out here though the humans are so caught up in their own little worlds, no walls or defences and it's like a hundred TV screens viewing different shows at once.

Then again there is nothing good showing at four, five o’clock in the morning and the air is quiet and chilled. Jethro had also spent most of his life blocking out the frequencies. It’s become almost second nature to him, and most of the time he hardly thinks about his extra ability, lest he abuses it. The only exception was chemistry tests, and then again, that was chemistry.

Sighing, he grips hold of his crutches and draws his jacket around his shoulders, beginning the arduous process of swing, walk, move, swing, walk, move…

It's going to take him a while.

***

Deaton looks as fresh and youthful as ever, even when they show up at his surgery at five in the morning. Maybe the guy just doesn’t sleep, Scott considers, as they move in, constantly aware of their surroundings as if they could be jumped at any moment.

He wishes they had somewhere better to go to than the animal clinic, considers that Stiles might be right: they really need a decent base. Derek had the right idea, but his choice of base sucked, because really… abandoned train stations? Random empty buildings…?

Derek had no style.

“Hounds, you say?” the veterinarian frowns, flicking through some of his druid books. Lydia and Stiles have stolen one and are pouring over it.

"I don't get it!" Lydia whispers angrily from where she is pouring over the bestiary, leaning over where the book rests on the table. Pages flick past as she skims through each chunk of text. "What are they? And where are they now? Should they be here already?"

She asks the question that is on everybody's minds. Isaac brushes aside the blinds, peering out. It's not like he's going to see much, but he is silent, mouth slightly open as he scents the air and listens.

“It’s possible that they’ve lost your scent,” Deaton looks up from the book he is leafing through, “That something interfered with their ability to track you down. It buys you a little bit of leeway and time to prepare.”

Scott leaves Isaac on lookout duty and joins the rest of his pack. He looks down at the book Deaton is looking at. Upon the realisation that he doesn't speak Latin and the words make no sense to him, he turns to Stiles. "How the hell did you know to get there in time?" he asks. “If you hadn’t turned up we’d have been dog food.”

"Isaac," Stiles shrugs, and said werewolf turns. "He heard the flare of Allison’s arrow. Then a scream as we got closer. It must have been the woman."

Allison frowns, "She was… I… my…" she swallows the words, and then spits them out in a coherent sentence, "My mom told me you were in trouble," she says.

Her dead mom.

Scott bites his lip.

Deaton looks interested, “Are these ghosts always helpful?” he asks.

Allison shakes her head numbly and Stiles snorts into his hands. Scott just considers the blonde girl in the distance, occasionally scrawling symbols on his belongings and shakes his head. “They’re not harmful,” he tells the vet carefully, “But they’re not exactly what I’d call helpful.”

"When you made a sacrifice to the Nemeton," Deaton moves over to rummage through a drawer. "You tied yourself to its source of power. You opened a door."

"Is that where the ghosts came from?" Scott asks, leaning towards the vet curiously.

"I think the ghosts were here already. The spirits… are restless." Deaton has cryptic down to a fine art. "They linger here, tied to the Nemeton. I imagine that the hounds, being tied to the dead, are confused by the ghosts present. It will give us an hour, two hours tops before they’ll find you amongst the ghosts clinging to the town."

"So now we're linked to the Nemeton, we're linked to the ghosts," he concludes, because it's not as though Deaton is going to do it for him. “Why are our ghosts different? Shouldn’t we be seeing the same ghosts?”

“No two people are alike,” Deaton shrugs, “And so you don’t see the same ghosts. It’s not as much the ghosts manifesting themselves to you, as to you slipping through to them. You’re reaching out, unconsciously to the Nemeton and they’re reaching back.”

Scott shivers, uncomfortable. He stares out to the window and wonders where the hell hounds are. They’re taking their time and it makes him uneasy. “As if ghosts were bad enough, we’ve got more wolves in town.” He sighs, because they never catch a fucking break, do they?

“It appears that the darkness of the Nemeton has drawn something far worse than your rival pack and a few ghosts.” Deaton says gravely. His features are stiff, as if carved out of stone.

“That woman…” Allison whispers. “She was trying to peel her own face off.” She winces in disgust.

"Was it that guy?" Stiles asks, wide-eyed. Without his coloured string he’s making all these links out loud, and whispering with Lydia as they switch books for another one, "Can werewolves do that? Make people do what they want them to?"

Deaton shakes his head, "Only alphas can command those lower in the pack hierarchy. And if the woman had been a werewolf she would have healed."

“We are assuming, off course, that it is a werewolf,” Deaton presses his lips together in a fine line.

Isaac moves over from the window, "So we've got what? A pack of killer rabid dogs on our tail and a maybe-werewolf...who can… manipulate people into clawing their own face off from a hundred metres down the street…?" He sounds disbelieving, but those are the facts.

"Shut up Isaac," Stiles grouches, "Go stand guard."

"Just stand on lookout Isaac, for dogs you can't see Isaac," the beta mutters, but moves back towards the window. He pushes asides the blinds and then turns around. The sun is rising, and the day already is looking dull and awake. "What are the chances we lost them?" he asks, hopefully.

"Low," Lydia says, curled up on the chair with the bestiaries. The one she is leafing through looks like a print out of the Argent’s copy, crisp pages with the occasional note in red pen in the margin. "I think… guys I think I've found it… but…" she shakes her head and dumps the book on the table pushing it forwards. Scott peers at it.

"Holy…" Stiles splutters as he sees the accompanying illustration. "Is that what they…?"

"Yes." Lydia remains composed.

Scott tears his gaze away from the bloody illustrations and looks at the archaic Latin. "And that means…?" he prompts, "What is it?"

“Hell hounds.” Deaton answers, and moves over to a drawer.

“It’s some sort of demonic pit bull,” Lydia whispers. Her smile is a thin lipped grimace.

"Hell hound?" Stiles repeats, "Like… Cerberus? Hades' pet…" he struggles for a word, "Monstrosity?"

Isaac ducks away from the window again. He really makes a rubbish lookout. "So we can sing to it?" he asks.

“This isn’t some monster from Harry Potter,” Deaton shakes his head, “They’re trained hunting dogs that retrieve the souls of the damned.”

“Well that is mildly irritating,” Stiles lets his head fall into his hands, elbows propped up on the table. “Where’s the useful information? Such as how to kill them..?" Stiles asks hopefully, and his head swivels around to look at Deaton.

The vet drops a bag on the table in front of them but doesn't open it. It's made of hessian, and is bound with a piece of string. He pushes it across to Scott and the alpha werewolf hesitates in touching it.

"Mountain ash?" he asks.

"Doesn't affect them. This is called goofer dust. It's a mixture of graveyard dirt and some herbs, but it will work the same way. Use it to seal the doors and windows, any entrances. It won't hold them off forever but it will give you time."

Allison is pacing back and forth, "And can we kill them?" she asks.

Deaton tilts his head to one side, "Not that I know of…" he begins hesitantly, "There are rumours of a kurdish blade that can… but it's nowhere that you can get it easily."

The huntress spins around and back again, anxious energy thrumming through her. "So we're going to die? Is that it?" She sighs and then answers her own question. "Dammit of course they’re invincible monsters. It sounds like some sort of bad horror movie." The huntress sounds frustrated, and tense. They've just missed being eaten earlier that morning, and now they have about two hours before the hounds pick up their trail.

"No," Stiles leans forwards, "This always happens. With the kanima. The alpha pack. The Darach. They’re always so much more powerful. We’re fighting a losing game every time but we still fight. And you know what? We come out on top. So I say we come up with a plan before those suckers rip us to shreds and we mutilate them beyond hellish recognition.” There is a fire shining in his eyes, and Scott’s never been more glad that Stiles isn’t a werewolf. His best friend might be part of his pack, but not in the way that Isaac or the twins are. Because his friend doesn’t bow to his orders like Isaac, he presses against Scott, forcing him to become a better leader and sparking off his own ideas.

"Stiles' right," Allison nods. "And there isn't just us, there are the twins, my dad… someone must have some idea of how to stop this guy setting his pet poodles on us."

Scott thinks calling them 'poodles' might be a bit strong, but he agrees. Isaac might be the only beta werewolf in Scott's pack, but in terms of dynamics Allison and Stiles are his seconds in command.

“So we get everyone we can,” Allison concludes, in full out hunter mode now, "And when the time comes and they're after us, we shoot them so full of silver and mountain ash that they're too injured to injure us. Let that guy set his pets on us then."

Scott nods determinedly. The vet nods slowly, “That sounds like it might work. Whatever sent them after you will get bored eventually.”

“Whatever sent them after us?” Scott repeats, “You don’t think he’s a werewolf, do you?”

Deaton looks worried. And not just ‘your dog is going to die’ worried but more ‘this could blow up the town’ worried. “Hell hounds come, as the name suggests, from Hell.”

“Hell is real?” Stiles asks. He then starts violently and gazes around at something Scott can’t see.

Deaton nods.

“But… really… _Hell_?” Stiles presses.

Deaton just looks grave, “There are far worse things that crawl out of the bottomless pit than just mutated dogs.”

Scott just closes his eyes, exhausted. He hates Thursdays.

***

“Grab any weapons you can find,” Allison instructs as they enter her apartment. They’re not planning on staying, especially not with other people in the building. They’d be at risk too if they hang around for too long, and none of them want that.

They’re mainly here to pick up weapons and to find Chris Argent. Instead Allison paces into the living room frowning. “It’s weird,” she says to the empty room, “My dad should be here. He wakes up when a mouse squeaks.”

She paces around the living room before stopping, spotting the bright florescent yellow post-it note on the fridge. She moves towards it, plucking it off and reading it.

Turning quietly back to Scott she crumples the note in her hands, “Dad’s on a hunting trip. Tracking down leads on ghosts," she says, evidently frustrated by this. “He turns his phone off when he drives. I won’t be able to get hold of him until this evening.” She grits her teeth and in a burst of anger unusual for Allison, she kicks out at the wall. “Dammit!” she snaps.

Scott tries not to think of what Chris Argent was hunting, and also tries to hope that Isaac isn’t helping himself to any electric batons. If there are any (which considering the Argents there probably are) he’ll have to make sure Stiles doesn’t steal one. The last thing they needed was Stiles Stilinski with an electrified baseball bat.

“Where’s your mom?” Allison says suddenly, and he slips his hand into his pocket, looking for his phone.

“She’s… at work I hope. She works weird shifts.” He pulls out his phone, wondering if he should even bother to see where his dad is, and then decides he doesn’t care. He’s slightly desperate as he holds down the speed dial and waits for the screen to shift into call mode.

A picture of his mom materialises on screen and a small ringing noise can be heard. Allison watches for a moment, and then moves over to her father’s desk to rifle through the drawers for ammo, head ducked and trying to pretend that she isn’t listening.

Despite his mom being at work, she still answers on the second ring.

"Scott? What are you…? It's five AM, Scott, you should be asleep." she sounds disapproving, but also worried, because if he's phoning her this early before its usually necessary to be awake then something must be up. "Do I need to come and get you…?”

"Mom, no, no don't come home, stay at the hospital, okay?"

"Scott. What's wrong?"

"Look, has a woman come in with claw marks up her face?"

"Scott…" her voice has dropped into that warning tone, and she sounds fed up with him and his supernatural troubles less than a minute into the conversation.

"Please. This is important."

There is a frustrated sigh, "The ambulance picked up a woman, late-twenties from an anonymous 911 call. I take it that was you?"

"Is she okay?" Scott repeats, "Mom…"

"Scott…" her voice falters, "The woman died shortly after reaching the hospital."

Scott leans forwards, convinced that he must have misheard. "What?" he repeats. Allison looks up worried, "What do you mean she died?" he asks out loud, "Her injuries weren't life threatening!"

He can almost picture his mother's shrug and confused frown, "Doctor Osmodai said her head was bleeding from a heavy trauma. The bleed in the brain… well they couldn't get to it fast enough."

Scott swallows, but his throat is dry, and the air rasps down it uncomfortably.

"You're not a doctor Scott," his mom tells him, "Obviously things were worse than they appeared. You tried your best…. But what happened?"

"She…" Scott falls silent, unable to process the idea that they had in some way let the woman die. Maybe they even killed her if the head wound had been the cause. In knocking her out to save her life… they had doomed her anyway.

Still at least it was kinder than death at her own bloody hands.

Allison's expression breaks as he shakes his head sharply at her, gaze desolate and hopeless. She backs away, assumedly to seek solace in where Isaac is raiding the Argent’s weapon store.

"Scott," Melissa snaps on the line, "What happened?" Her voice is curt, frustrated. "You need to tell me,” she instructs. “I am your mother, and I can't have you run around at midnight and being involved in suspicious deaths." her tone is unusually harsh, "You promised me…"

"Mom…" he says weakly, and she must hear the desperation in his voice.

She sighs and speaks again, this time her voice calmer. "I…  I'm sorry… It's just early." She sounds like she is resting her head in her hands. "Tell me later?"

"Promise," he lies, wondering if they are even going to be around later.

"Just… don't do anything stupid," she begs. "It seems like every time things begin to look up, your little pack manages to go out and find trouble again. I wish you wouldn't."

"I won't. I promise. I…” Isaac and Allison emerge carrying a duffel bag that clinks as the beta werewolf swings it with ease onto one shoulder, “Look, I’ve got to go. Love you, mom."

He hangs up as he hears the faint reply, a weak grin on his face, not reflecting his inner turmoil or guilt. He drops his phone on the table and turns to his friends.

“We’re taking this back to the clinic.” Isaac tells him.

Scott nods, “I’m going to find the twins.”

“Now?” Allison stresses, “Scott we’re running out of time.”

He bites his lip, something he hasn’t done in months. “We need all the help we can get,” he tells them, wishing it wasn’t true, and that they could handle this. “Ethan and Aidan could help turn the tide in our favour.”

Allison can’t really argue with that at all. She just looks concerned. “Hurry,” she tells him. Next to her Isaac nods in agreement, and for the first time since they’ve unofficially got together Scott doesn’t feel that twinge of resentment, jealously, bitterness and sadness.

“I’ll see you soon,” he promises, and then walks out of the door.


	13. Where the Light Will Find You

"Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Remember when we were kids and you used to read me the stories about the Knights of the Round Table?"

"Are you going to start angsting about being pure again?"

"What? No? How do you even know what that word means? No, I just… this is kind of like a quest, huh?"

Dean frowns from where he is leaning over the chair Sam has perched his massive frame on. He looks sideways at his little brother as if he doesn't even know the guy. "Dude." he complains, "A little focus here?"

Sam turns to glare at him, and finds Dean inches from his face. Leaning back he wrinkles his nose. "Dude, your breath stinks," he complains. Dean breathes into his hand and sniffs and then has to admit that Sam is right. "And can you stop leaning over my shoulder?" Sam complains, "You've been taking personal space lessons from Cas."

Dean sighs and straightens, shoulders complaining. "In that case," he rolls his back muscles, "I'm going to go and stretch my legs."

"Is that code for 'I am going to stalk out cute angel girls?'" Sam is so suspicious of him that it hurts, it really does.

The blonde just grins disarmingly at Sam, "Aw, do you wanna' come with?"

As predicted Sam snorts and turns back to his precious laptop. Dean grabs his jacket and the demon killing knife. On second thoughts he puts the knife on the table next to Sam and helps himself to the angel swords they’ve made a note to pick up off any dead angels they find. They've got a stash in the trunk of about five of the damn things, and every time Cas shows up the poor guy unloads even more on them. There's a box at the bunker just of silver blades that their angel buddy has picked up, and it's not a box of trophies, as much as a box of memories.

Dean doesn't have enough brothers and sisters to be able to collect their mementos like stamps in a box. Instead he's got a broken brother he keeps trying to patch up and the empty hollow memory of whatever happened to his half-brother.

That question will always haunt Dean, so he shoves the door open and steps out. The cold dry air hits sharply and he takes a startled breath, zipping up his black jacket and sticking his one hand into his pocket while the other scratches the back of his head as he thinks.

If he were a demon where would he hang out…?

***

Sam answers his phone an hour later. The car is still parked outside, and so he assumes Dean's just been wandering around the city.

On the other side, Dean is relieved when the call connects. "Sam?" he asks.

"Yeah?" Sam huffs, "At least I was last time I checked."

Dean winces, because that's a low blow. He ducks around the corner to check out angel HQ, observing the three angels in dark suits hanging around in the entrance. "Come get me.” Dean says, breathing heavily as he ducks back around and leans against the wall, staring up at the dark sky.

“There is a magical arrangement of words that will get me there faster, you know.” Sam bitches back at him, so Dean adjusts his enquiry accordingly.

“Come get me, bitch.”

“Not those words,” he hears his brother sigh, but Sam is already moving, things rattling over the line.

"I've got a lead," Dean says, and he hears it in stereo. He stops, and then cautiously speaks again. "You found something?"

"Uh, yeah…" the phone shifts, presumably pressed against Sam's shoulder. "That exhibit that travelled over from Wales? I ran up a list of what was in it, and amongst the items are several chalices, bowls and other items that could be considered a 'grail'. We should head over there to check it out."

"Ah." Dean says, and he peers around the corner again. "Well my first point is that Amy's dead."

"Who?" Sam frowns.

"The angel," Dean hisses.

"Dude… why are you whispering?"

"I told you. Amitiel is dead. There are angels having a little buddy-buddy chat around the corner and Abaddon's in town. I've already run into one other demon who apparently had the same idea I had to stake out the angels while Abaddon tracks them down and kills them. She's killing the angels and apparently her next stop is the museum. Meanwhile the halo patrol look like they're going there to head her off."

Over the phone there is a loud clunk.

"I liked her as well," Dean complains, "Amy, that is. Why is it always the ones I like that get ganked?" he hates the past tense in the sentence. “Well,” he moves his train of thought on, “The girls you sleep with have a short life expectancy.” He baits his brother, waiting for the snappish tone of his younger sibling.

There is no reply and he pauses before speaking again, worry tainting his tone.

"Sam? _Sam_?"

"Dude, I'm just packing," is the faint, barely audible reply. Dean relaxes, because Sam has probably dropped the phone on the table while he proceeds to stuff his laptop in his bag.

"Right, well, hurry your ass up because…" Dean observes the two angels whispering together. Wait a second… hadn't there been three?

He backs away out of sight and turns around right into the man standing behind him with dark brown hair and a neat spotless suit. The man is standing far too close for comfort and Dean knocks into him, dropping his phone in surprise.

"Dean Winchester." the man says, and he's an angel, because what else could he be? The demons tended to run the other direction these days.  Dean recognises as Kamael from a week of spying on the cameras.

The phones hits the ground with a thud, but thankfully the screen stays lit, not broken yet. Dean glances down at it, and his hand scrambles for the silver sword. Where the hell is it, he wonders, when his pocket turns out to be empty.

"Looking for this?" the angel examines his reflection in the silver metal. Dean's throat grows dry.

"Dean? _Dean_!" Sam's voice echoes on the line, and it’s his turn to be worried this time. With a blank gaze the angel in front of him steps forwards, crushing the device under his foot.

Dean winces. "Oh, come on, did you really have to do that?" he whines. He's going to lose all his phone contacts and have to get a new number. Again.

Kamael regards him silently, head tilted to one side in that usual angelic manner, as if he is trying to stare into Dean's head. "We've been looking for you." he says.

"Please tell me you wanted to buy me a beer."

***

"Nobody ever just wants to buy me a beer."

Kamael slams Dean forwards and his arms bash against the wall as he stumbles into angel HQ. His hands are bound behind his back in handcuffs, and he never knew angels were such kinky bastards, to carry them around in their pockets. He is receiving nothing but unfriendly glares from every angel present in the room. "Be silent, _Winchester_ ," Dean is sick of his name being used as a curse, but at the same time he's sort of proud of it. One day the monsters will tell their children to hide from the darkness, because otherwise the brothers Winchester would get them.

He grins at the thought and Kamael stalks around him. "Amitiel is dead," he snarls at Dean, "She informed us that she met and spoke with you prior to her death."

"I didn't kill her," Dean meets the angel's gaze. He doesn't know if the angel can tell if he's lying or not. "I'll tell you the same think I told her: there are demons here and they're after the same thing you're after."

He knows instantly he's said the wrong thing. "What we're after?" the brunette angel snarls. "You have no _idea_ what we're after!"

"Metatron dead?" Dean throws out, because that option is a pretty safe bet, and he's stalling until Sam can get there.

"You _ignorant_ …" another angel, a woman with long blonde hair shifts as if she's going to stab him and Kamael holds out a hand, holding her back.

"That was our task." he informs Dean gravely, "But orders change. Our priorities have shifted."

Dean shifts uncomfortably under the blue-eyed gaze.

"Bring him with us Remiel," Kamael orders the female angel. He gestures to several more angels to follow.

The angel shoves Dean in front of her, a silver sword at his back. Dean's outnumbered and he knows better than to try anything with so many angels around. He allows himself to be walked outside and down towards the cars parked along the roadside. "So Rem," he begins conversationally as she opens a car door and motions for him to get in, "How's the search for the grail going?" He clambers in, avoiding his head on the ceiling and shifting to try and get comfortable. Well… as comfortable as he can with his hands cuffed behind his back.

She ducks down, standing outside the car and peering in at where he sits awkwardly, hands behind his back. Her jaw is stiff, "Oh, you have _no_ idea, Winchester," she shakes her head and then slams the door closed. She slips into the shotgun seat while Kamael stalks around to the driver's seat. Dean attempts to grab for a seatbelt, because he doesn't trust an angel's driving skills.

In the side mirror he catches sight of the other angels also resorting to cars due to the lack of wings, but he refrains from making a comment.

And in the distance around the corner a black car lurks, but Dean just sits tight for now and begins a one-sided conversation with Remiel and Kamael.

The pair ignore him. Huh. Figures.

***

"Scout the perimeter," Kamael instructs. Another blonde angel that Dean thinks is called Ariel vanishes with the others to do just that. Dean is shoved unceremoniously forwards, hustled up the steps of the museum.

The sun is setting, and the older Winchester hadn't realised that it was already so late. The door to the architectural building is closed and locked, the sign stating that it closes at four. The banners that had been strung up outside had been packed away and inside the occasional member of staff wander around as they pack up for the night.

The angels have no tact as Kamael shoulders the door open. Thankfully it's not yet been locked; otherwise Dean would have expected an alarm to begin blaring out. Instead a woman just looks up t them with a puzzled frown on her face.

"I'm sorry," she begins, "But we're closed…" she gets no further as two fingers tap the side of her head and she tumbles to one side. Her head hits the marble floor with a sickening crack and Dean winces.

"Perimeter secured," the little mermaid angel reappears behind them, and for an angel without wings, she does a remarkable job at appearing from nowhere. Ariel was quick and efficient, and the five she took with her are already tapping the remaining staff members with their fingers of doom.

Dean is shoved forwards again, and he is really beginning to hate being manhandled around. Remiel steers him towards the Arthurian exhibit. The foyer of the museum opens up in three separate directions, and the angels steer towards the left wing where Sam and Dean had found Amitiel earlier. They pass under a large archway into the exhibit.

The room itself is long, with two various display cases in the middle of the floor and the rest all edging each wall. Three corridors lead off to the right at various intervals, the doors half shut.

The angels bypass all that, heading straight for the far left hand corner. Between two tall bookshelves is an almost hidden sign that says ‘staff only’ leading into what Dean thinks is a storage room.

Kamael and two other angels vanish inside, shoving the storage room open and slipping in. Dean doesn't see what they do, because Remiel holds him back, one hand on his shoulder and it makes him itch uncomfortably, having another angel touch him there. "Do I really need to be here?" he asks her, as they linger at the far end of the room. If he looks over his shoulder he can see the large archway in the distance.

The angel just stares at him with sad brown eyes, "You made this your business," she says.

"What do you guys want with the grail anyway?" Dean asks, "So yeah, I get that it's got a holy energy signal that's like a freaking beacon but beyond that? And it's uh… holy significance?"

"You know _nothing_ ," Remiel maintains her scornful opinion of him, "The grail, while not itself a weapon, provides power equal to the archangels. If harnessed properly its power could be used to…" she falls silent abruptly.

"Get you back into the penthouse?" Dean asks, and she turns away. He might be right or he might be grasping at straws, and after their earlier red herring with grace (a la Crowley) he's not willing to start drawing connections before there is proof. "And what if Abaddon gets a hold of that huh? What could she do with it? Bust the fallen angels out of the pit?"

He notes Remiel's shoulders stiffening, but she only marches forwards towards Kamael as he emerges from whatever storage place he was hiding out in.

The angel drops a box on the floor, rather unceremoniously for something that it supposedly holy.

"If this grail is so holy?" Dean persists in being annoying, "Then how come you can't just sense where it is?"

"It's too strong," Ariel answers him, mildly. "It vibrates and warps the energy signatures around it. This makes it possible to determine the location but not to precision.” The little mermaid is perusing a piece of paper another angel had handed to her, looking through what looks like an inventory for the exhibit.

"It's not here," Kamael looks up after a moment, packaging stuffed back into the box when it yields nothing. "I thought it was determined that it was in storage?" he looks startlingly lost, as if someone has stolen away his favourite teddy bear.

"It…" Ariel looks over the sheets again, "It should be…" She’s confused, and frowning as she scans again and again over the paper.

"Or maybe it just got confused and placed in an exhibit?" Dean suggests, "All the bowls and cups look the same, man." He later regrets those words when the angels go from looking at him to staring at the glass boxes around them lining the walls and shelves. There is even a row of glass fronted cabinets in the corner lined with silverware.

"Check them." Kamael orders sharply.

"No need." Remiel breathes out in wonder, and she steps towards a case, "Amitiel told us it was here before she died. And it is."

She gazes down the length of the room, and Dean follows her gaze. The glass display cases hold everything from wooden fruit bowls to bits of flint and arrow heads. On one wall swords hang, a horse head with silver plated armour sticking out the far side.

Beyond that there is a painting on the wall, flaking acrylic and harsh, almost violent brushstrokes. Beneath it is a life sized model of what Dean thinks is meant to be Merlin and Arthur, the latter kneeling as the supposed wizard crowns him. There is a table there, as part of the scene and on it rests silver chalices and ornate cutlery. Various sized cups sit next to each saucer, but there is only one that the angel is focussed on.

Remiel stalks across towards it, reaching for one that is sitting before a cross, and Dean stares at it, the thing studded with what looks like topaz. It looks simple compared to the others; dull and tarnished. The angel pauses with a frown, and then makes as if to grab it again.

"Ahem," someone clears their throat. "I think you'll find that's our prize you've got your hands on, angel," the new voice announces. "So pay up."

There is a woman standing under the arch at the far end of the long room, leaning cockily to one side. Her clothes are smart, almost uniform and there is a name badge pinned to her top left pocket. Dean frowns in recognition of the woman who had addressed them in the foyer. She grins at them, and there is something sickeningly off about it even before she flashes black eyes.

Dean feels almost guilty when he is relieved it isn’t Abaddon or Belial.

Or something worse.

"Sorry boys," she says, "But this is our party." The possessed staff members behind her begin reaching into jacket pockets for angel blades, and Dean thinks that the halo patrol really needs to keep better track of their weaponry. Then again, Virgil had been in charge and they'd left him stranded in a parallel world somewhere, and allowed Balthazar to run off with the majority of Heaven's nuclear bombs. That was probably saying something right there about Heaven's organisation skills.

"Impossible," Kamael snarls, his own sword visible as he begins to converge on the demons, stiff-legged and glaring at them. The lead black-eyed demon just tilts its head to one side, eyeing up the angel for potential weaknesses.

There are none. The angels are warriors, trained soldiers and the demons don't really stand much of a chance.

"How did they get in?" Dean voices suddenly, because he's pretty sure that efficient little mermaid angel had gone to salt and lock the doors.

"The salt lines were broken," the demon shrugs with a sneer, uncaring.

"Impossible," Kamael repeats again.

"You keep using that word," Sam comments helpfully as he sidles in from one of the long corridors leading from the exhibit room on the right. The door swings closed behind him as he emerges mid-way along the room, grinning at Dean. "I don't think it means what you think it means."

Dean's own grin is wide at seeing his brother casually interrupt the little pissing match between the angels and demons. Then it drops at the quote, while the angels and demons just look blankly at the brothers. The older brother shakes his head in disapproval. "'The Princess Bride', Sammy? Really?"

"It's a classic." Sam retorts, "I watched it with Jess after you refused to let me see it. You claimed it was a 'kissing movie' and that my tender six year old self would be scarred for life."

Dean pulls his own version of a bitch face at Sam. Then he pauses, suddenly aware that the demons and angels are staring at them.

"Who the hell invited them?" the demon actually sounds a little hoarse, as it jabs a finger towards Sam and Dean.

Remiel steps in front of the cup and Kamael and the other angels move forwards for protection. " _You_!" she snarls at Sam, sword flashing in the fake electric lights, " _You_ let the demons in? Filthy abomination." She barely gets the words out than Dean _moves_ , throwing his head back and hearing the satisfying crack as he breaks the nose of the angel that is holding him.

They're more delicate now, since the Fall, and once upon a time he'd have effectively been hitting his head on concrete, but now it works. The angel recoils with a hiss and Dean gives the handcuffs he had been working on for the past half-hour a twist, and the lock clicks open.

He follows up that movement with whirling around and grabbing the angel's wrist, the one holding the angel blade. He twists the hand until the silver sword drops out and he catches it neatly.

Effectively armed Dean moves backwards, away from the angels, and Sam moves forwards. Dean stares down the angels while Sam keeps an eye on his back, watching the demons on the far side of the room.

"Got a plan?" he whispers over his shoulder.

"What? No. You're the one who got yourself caught by the halo patrol. _You_ think of a plan." Trust Sam to be prepared beyond the first movement. And he had the audacity to call _Dean_ reckless?

"Enough of this," Kamael snarls, stalking forwards, "Get out of my way, Dean."

"Keep the demons off my back," Dean calls to Sam and then lunges sideways, out of the male angel's path. His right elbow smashes into a display case filled with various objects from silver bowls, to silken clothes and dresses. Unwilling to be stabbing the angels anytime soon, he grabs a silver bowl out of the case and throws it at Kamael as a deterrent, before Dean succeed in getting himself killed.

The angel bats it aside, and then gets distracted when the lead demon throws herself on him with a sword. He parries it, and Dean leaves the pair to fight, slicing his hand across the cut glass of the display case. He winces as glass slices at his palm and blood wells up, but it was still kind of his plan. It’s not ideal: he's lost enough over the past month, and he doesn't think he can afford to lose much more.

He reaches for the wall over the broken case, in preparation to send the angels into oblivion when his blood drops down into a wooden bowl that is decoratively holding fruit. There is a hiss as the blood meets the wood and steams. Dean aborts his movement to drawing the sigil and stares at the bowl before reaching down and pressing his hand to the wood.

The bowl is warm under his skin, and the mark on his right arm itches uncomfortably, while his left shoulder feels kind of tingly. Making a snap decision, he grabs it. The fruit arranged in it tips out, and Dean wants to laugh at the irony as he spots the gleaming red apples. They tumble across the floor as they tip out, and the one is cracked, a piece chipped out of it until it looks almost as if someone has taken a bite of it.

His blood has evaporated from where it touched the wooden bowl. It's plain and ordinary at first appearance, made out of wood even, but at second glance there are carvings in the depths of the whorls of wood, and there is something vibrating under his palms.

Across the room Remiel's gaze lands on him. She mouths something, and probably shouts it, but Dean doesn't pay any attention.

"Sam!" Dean shouts without thinking, falling back on old instincts. His brother has fought his way across the room and has stabbed about three demons on the way. He's now standing beside the other door and what is soon to be their escape. "Sammy!"

Sam blinks as something wooden sails above everyone's heads. Dean knew his younger brother should have been a basketball player as he reaches out and snatches the bowl out of mid-air, and then proceeds to stand there stupidly as the angels and demons turn to look at him, eyes both hungry and confused as they try to work out what's just happened.

Sam and Dean work in sync, for they both bolt for the door Sam had entered through at the same time. Sam's already there but it takes Dean three long steps, and a pause to duck a silver blade that one wily angel threw at him. A demon launches itself at him only to meet its end as Kamael stabs it through the throat, already moving in pursuit after them. The demons are backing away, knowing they don’t stand much chance against the angels.

The brothers burst out into the corridor and Dean slams the wooden oaken door shut. The corridor is long, carpeted nicely and with paintings along the one wall and information boards along the other. At the far end it opens out into another exhibit room.

Sam abandons him to trying to find the lock for the one door alone while he legs it for the next room. The blonde struggles to find a lock and then just settlings for shoving a conveniently located chair under the door handle. He abandons it and continues running, his pounding heart matching his pounding footsteps.

He wonders how screwed up their life is that they went and decided to make a third side entitled 'we have no idea what we're doing' although Dean personally prefers the catchier 'team free will', but last time he suggested that it had been shouted down. At the moment he’s thinking along the lines of ‘we make shit up and accidently succeed’ might sum the situations they end up in pretty well.

His plan with the chair and the door is useless. Kamael sends the door flying open, the upper hinge well and truly busted, all with one single hand pressed to the wood. The demons scatter in the background, and Dean isn't a fool. He knows they aren't gone, are just finding other routes towards their ultimate goal.

"Find a back door!" Dean skids past where Sam shoves the next door closed. Sam has his back to the door and an angel blade slicing across his palm. Dean winces at seeing the blood, but Sam is already daubing it across the wall to his left.

The giant shape of Dean's little brother shifts to the side and for a moment Dean is the deer in the headlights when the door slams open. Kamael is fury and ice and fire and Dean is reminded of Castiel, threatening to throw him back into Hell so long, long ago.

Then Sam slams his palm down on the sigil and the white light of Kamael's grace flares as he is blasted out of the room. Dean wonders where he'll end up. Somewhere far away hopefully, with cows…

"There," Sam lurches through the next exhibit room about the romans. There is a modal of a roman solider in wax waving a sword and it takes Dean a moment to realise what Sam's spotted.

There's a fire exit to the one side, and their escape is just in time because down another corridor to their right Dean spots figures racing towards them.

The demons see him too.

"Go!" he slams into Sam, but his brother is a large barricade to the exit. He is fumbling with the fire exit. "What?" Dean hisses, "It's a fire exit, go!"

"It's chained up!" Sam protests and Dean now spots the lock picking tools in his brother's giant hands.

"Who the hell chains up a fire exit?" Dean snarls. "Goddamn angels!" he kicks at a nearby post. He twists the angel blade anxiously in his grip and eyes the approaching demons.

Four of them. Crap.

"Here," Sam shoves something into his hands and it takes Dean a while to recognise the salt container. Where the hell had his brother been carrying that?

Then again Sam had his duffel slung over his shoulder into which the bowl had been shoved in. Dean doesn't question it and drops to his knees in front of the corridor the demons are in and begins pouring out a salt line. The white stuff scatters everywhere, but Dean knows it will last because he’ll fucking make it last. One of these days they’re going to do something clever like stick tape down so the salt doesn’t blow away, but today isn’t one of those days.

He finishes the salt line, just as the demons reach them and then stands, grinning at them with a smug smile. They draw up sharply, as if scalded and their eyes are a burnt, marble black.

"Hurry up," Dean snaps over his shoulder at where Sam is peering into the lock, the pick scrabbling to click the tumblers down.

The demons are pacing on the other side of the salt line. Their eyes are like black marbles. One curls its lips at Dean and says, "You're not going to win this. You've haven't got a chance in hell."

"I'm not the one with the morbid fear of condiments," Dean says (and oh God that was a freaking lame comeback, seriously, condiments?).

The fire escape opens and his younger brother practically falls through.

"Audi nos bitches," Dean sneers at them, knowing the words of the exorcism must hurt like a punch to the face. He wishes they had time to stay and at least let the poor hosts die in peace, but they don't have time. They had priorities too, and the sorry sons of bitches are probably dead anyway. They haven't found a living host for almost four years.

Then he follows his brother out into the dusk (practically tripping over where Sam lies sprawled outside and seriously, their exit freaking sucked.)

"So..." Dean says as he waves his arms about to right himself. "We found the Holy Grail. I'd count that as a good days work but beyond that I have no idea what we achieved."

"I don't know." Sam shrugs from where he lies sprawled on the ground. "It was fun though."

"Hell yeah," Dean grins.


	14. See How Deep The Bullet Lies

"Well?" She paces in front of him, shoes clipping on the perfect wooden flooring. "Do you like it?"

Luke stretches out his hands in front of him, feeling a yawn building up in his chest. He's been out for a while. The demon won't tell him how long but he thinks it might be just over a week or so. It doesn't worry him anymore, the idea of time passing so quickly.

Now he stares at himself in a full length mirror. Naamah stands over to one side, eyeing him critically. He ignores her though, instead marvelling over the solid, masculine features and strong muscles under skin.

He clears his throat, and the deep rumble in his chest sends a thrill through him. It burns in his blood and his eyes flash yellow. Startled, he turns to where the demon is pressing her lips together in critical examination of his appearance. She looks impressed, he thinks. At least he hopes she does.

"I reckon it's not bad as meat suits come," she says.

"I'm still a werewolf!" he breaks out, surprise in his voice. She scoffs.

"Of course you are. The disease infects your soul, not your body." She pushes herself away from the wall and begins to circle him again. It makes him feel uncomfortable but he lets her, too scared to move away.

 _“You should get the hell out of there.”_ His consciousness says, and he ignores it. She's not going to hurt him, not after going to all this trouble to fix his deal up. “ _But she's a fucking demon… what the hell would a demon want with him?”_

"Soooo…" she drawls out, hand tracing his collar bone and up along the shoulder, "Happy?" she asks.

He nods. The man in the mirror nods to. There’s some Michael Jackson joke in here somewhere but Luke’s never been one for jokes. Jethro was always the comedic one of their group.

He shoves away that thought violently. He doesn’t need them now. He’s gone - left them behind.

This is who he is now

A grin fights its way onto his face.

Naamah pauses in front of him, lips curling mockingly, but her gaze is sweet and tender. "Great." she pats his chest. Her black eyes glint, like iridescent beetle wings. Belial is gone. Luke can't scent the sulphur or burnt feather scent that had clung to the yellow-eyed demon, and he's probably long gone. Naamah's hand drops lower towards his stomach and beyond, fingers digging under his t-shirt almost seductively. He leans into the touch just as she pulls away, spinning neatly towards the door and grabbing a jacket that is thrown over a maroon leather sofa.

"Here," deft fingers slip a set of keys from a hook near the door, and she throws them to him. Luke, for all his werewolf elegance, is in a body that is four inches taller and he overextends, and they clink to the floor. He bends down to pick them up and when he looks up again the demon is almost at the door.

"Wait!" he lurches up, "That's it? You're just going to…" he trails off.

The demon's smile is pitiful, "What? Did you expect me to dump you back with poor mummy and for you to go back to your weak, pathetic life? Oh darling, when you make a deal with me, you play by my rules. Which means visits to mummy are out of the question."

Luke's stomach lurches. "My mum…"

Naamah's fingers soil around the door handle and she leans back, hair loose around her shoulders. "Oh?" she asks, voice rising pitch perfect, "Did you forget about your poor sweet mother _darrrling_?" she draws the last word out, making it sound empty and hollow, "All alone in that big house. First daddy left her for the workplace slut. Then baby girl leaves her too."

"Shut up" Luke snarls, "She's fine. She'll probably think I've just run away."

The demon laughs, "Fine. Whatever sweetie," she straightens and blows him a kiss. "Stay as long as you want," and the words hide so many euphemisms and connotations that it makes Luke uncomfortable now, in his new body. “ _Because the demon is freaking hot.”_ When she's not ripping out hearts.

"And you're…" Luke steps forwards, revelling in the feel of new muscles, alien and strange to him, "What are you doing?"

The demon shrugs nonchalantly, and pulls the door open, "I'll be around. You can find me if you need me, otherwise," her lips twist up, her tongue flashing out to wet her lips. "See you in ten years," The image would be perfect if not for the black hollow eyes, and the sickly sweet tone, and some part of Luke appreciates it. Then with a blink she slips away.

The door closes behind her with a click leaving Luke alone.

_“Thank freaking fuck she's gone.”_

He frowns at the thought, because it's not the first erratic thing that has wandered across his mind since he awoke.

_“You know what sucks? Being stuck in your own body while a fucking werewolf hijacks it.”_

It's true, he admits to himself, and wonders what happened to the soul in here already. Maybe Belial pulled the guy out and dumped him somewhere. Or maybe he just killed him.

_“I’m not dead! I’m still here you dumbass!”_

Luke catches sight of his reflection in the mirror again and freezes. He half expects the mirror reflection to move on its own, and for the guy to roll his eyes.

 _“It took you a while.”_ The guy in his head says, and Luke thinks that if the reflection could move on its own, it would be glaring at him with anger and terror on his face.

***

“Who the hell are you?” Luke demands of the guy in his head.

_“My name is Chandler Brady. This is my body. Now who the hell are you?”_

“That's one weird name,” Luke thinks. Then panic begins to grow, because this is _his_ body, all for him and the guy who used to be here is intruding…

_“Intruding? It's my fucking body! Now some teenage werewolf has taken it over because she wants to be a he.”_

Luke slams his hands over his ears. "Go away," he whispers. "Go away."

_“Not gonna' work Lucy. Didn't ya' know? I'm inside your head.”_

Chandler has a sick sense of humour. He’s also remarkably calm from what Luke can tell. He’s not freaking out as much as he should be, or maybe that’s going to come later.

Luke opens his eyes and tries to glare at something, but the only thing that comes even similar to shooting daggers at the guy is glaring at the mirror. And that feels too much like he’s just looking at himself so he shakes his head, trying to shake the voice out. "This is my body now," he snarls, and it's deep and male and it's _his_.

 _“It was mine first!”_ Chandler retorts, and Luke thinks the guy should be panicking more about demons and werewolves, but he's taking it in his stride quite well. “ _Well duh. I'm in your head. Your memories.”_

"Get out of there," Luke snaps again to the empty room. He drops onto the sofa and curls up, and tries to ignore the voice on the edge of his consciousness. The guy is sarcastic and frustrated, and it's not a good combination considering Luke's just stolen his body (it was given to him dammit, he made a deal).

 _“You should go to a mental hospital,”_ Chandler is only human after all, and he’s beginning to worry. Luke feels dizzy, because he can feel it, the worry and stress pouring off the soul despite the calm tone of the voice.

It shouldn’t be there! This is Luke’s body now, and the guy has no right to influence how Luke feels.

“Go away,” he snarls to himself again, trying to drown out the other voice in his head. He hums songs, whatever he can think of in a vain attempt to drown out the other voice.

 _“Come on, don’t just sit there! Stand up! Do something,”_ Brady mumbles. _“My mom is going to kill me. I got myself possessed by some stranger…”_

Luke’s fists clench angrily and he can feel his claws extend into his palms. With a bout of fury he stands suddenly, glaring around the room almost as if he could find someone to focus his rage at. He can feel the shift tug at him, and he’s missed at least one full moon, he thinks.

 _“Oh god. Oh god.”_ Any earlier bravado is gone and the voice - Chandler - is hyperventilating _inside Luke’s head._ _“I’m schizophrenic. I’m insane. I need to find a mental hospital. I need to tell my mom. I need to find a doctor.”_

“You don’t need to do anything.” Luke bites out at the empty room. “I’m not insane. I’d be fine if you’d just shut up!”

 _“Shut up?”_ Brady laughs. _“Nu uh, if I start listening to the voices that’s it. I’m gone. There’ll be no saving me then. It’s bad enough that there is already a teenage werewolf in my body--”_ There is another pause, _“Oh my god you’re a teenage werewolf. This is like some sort of sick fantasy. I have a werewolf in my head.”_

Luke shakes his head violently, eyes rolling around the room. He finds the mirror to focus on, and he stares at the unfamiliar person staring back at him. He doesn’t recognise the person, any more than the voice of American consonants and vowels. It feels like he’s the reflection, hidden out of sight in the shadows, and that the real person is inside him, talking in his head.

He’s stolen their place.

Then why doesn’t he feel guilty about it?

 _“You’ve got to let me go, man. I didn’t do anything I swear why me why…?”_ Chandler is nothing more than an endless babble and with a snarl Luke sees his eyes flash yellow.

He lunges towards the mirror. “Shut up!” he snaps. "Shut up shut up shut up."

The mirror breaks in fragments beneath his fists that fall to the ground, and Luke catches sight of his new face staring back at him, the bloody knuckles of Brady's body and desperate eyes, filled with frustration and tears.

But there are too many images that fall to the ground and he has no idea which one is him anymore.

***

He tries to sleep.

The voice doesn’t stop. Despite everything he does, no matter how many sheep he counts, Brady is still there, as a constant presence if nothing more. It’s like he has someone cuddling up to him, well within his personal space and occasionally speaking right in one ear. It makes him jump every time, and he shivers from the close contact of the other person.

Eventually though he manages to drift to the state of mindlessness that comes just before sleep. With a gentle wave he sinks under, and there is nothing but relief at the blessed silence that comes with sleep.

It feels a bit like falling. That sensation you get sometimes while trying to sleep. That you automatically shy away from. There is sudden feeling of weightlessness and then he’s tumbling over and over and over and--

With a start he jerks awake.

In the back of his mind Brady whines, babbling over and over about something. Luke clenches his eyes closed but the feeling of falling is gone.

He’s not asleep either.

He leans back on the sofa, limbs strangely lethargic, as if feeling the struggle of holding two souls in one body. He can fall asleep again. He just has to wait, to think about something else. He remembers what his mum used to say about telling himself stories in his head.

He has plenty of time.

Almost too much time.

He sits there trying to drown out the voice. Brady doesn’t shut up. Occasionally he will fall silent, but it isn’t long before he speaks up again. It’s even worse than being trapped in the same room as someone, for in this instance the person is inside his very head.

There is nowhere to run.

So instead Luke buries himself inside his own brain. It’s not like sleeping, _or_ dreaming. He just tries to visualise memories to drown out the world.

It doesn’t work: it’s nothing more than him, eyes clenched closed and trying to hang on to awareness.

_“Why won’t you just let me go? You’re goddamn selfish you know that?”_

It doesn’t always work.

***

What feels like hours later Luke startles as Brady speaks up again. He should really be used to it by now, but every time the other soul speaks it’s still a surprise. He twitches as Chandler asks him, _“I don’t think you trying to fall asleep is going to work.”_

“It would if you’d just shut up.” Luke snaps.

The apartment which only that morning had been warm and full of light is now cold and dim, illuminated only by the harsh electric lights of the city outside. He hasn’t moved from the apartment - he has nowhere else to go, and for now it’s easier to stay there.

_“You don’t understand! There is nothing! I’m alone in this dark room with occasional images and sounds and you. If I don’t talk I think I’ll go mad!”_

“Well you’re driving me mad!” Luke jumps to his feet, wanting to whirl on this invisible assailant.

But he can’t attack himself, so he does the next best thing. He did it with his friends, and he did it with his mom and he can do it now.

He runs.

It’s cold outside, bitter wind biting at his face. Luke can feel that, along with a dreadful weariness. He lets his eyes sink closed, and there is that horrible sinking feeling of falling as if his soul is slipping off a cliff. It scares him, terrifies him, and it feels too much like death for his liking, so he jolts into a walk before he falls completely.

If he falls he doesn’t think he’ll be able to pull himself back into existence from whatever awaits him at the bottom.

If he falls he worries he might fade away entirely.

He doesn’t know what city he’s in.

He doesn’t really care.

He walks briskly, trying to get away from it all, not really thinking about where he’s going. He feels almost drunk, really tired and he shouldn’t feel that tired. He’s only just woken up, hasn’t he?

It’s dark out. He thinks he might have lost track of time, somewhere between one argument and the next with the voice in his head.

The city is distorted in his perceptions as he stumbles his way through it. In his head Brady mumbles _“shut up shut up shut up,”_ over and over again.

Yet no matter how far Luke walks, nor matter how quickly he runs, Chandler stays there, begging and pleading and making idle comments about everything and anything. They’re tied together, buried together in this hole and neither is going anywhere without a fight.

***

He ends up in the bathroom of some cheap nightclub with a bottle of pills in his hand. He’s not quite sure where he got them, he thinks he’s slightly desperate.

There’s another mirror over the sink and Luke stares at the unfamiliar face, tracing out the features. His eyes are frantic with dark bags under them, and he wonders how long he’s been awake now. It feels like days, but it might have been nothing more than twelve hours.

 _“What are you doing?”_ Chandler sounds panicked, “ _Are you trying to kill yourself?”_

Luke thinks he can almost see a reflection of the man there behind his frantic yellow eyes as he downs a handful of pills. “Shut up.” He snaps. “Just shut up.” He’s frantic and tired and he can’t sleep. He’s tried, and he can’t.

He doesn’t think he can anymore. Not with the guy in here with him, a voice that never stops.

Which is why it has come to this. To a handful of pills.

That do nothing.

Luke can feel the drugs working on his body, slowing it down. His werewolf metabolism means the effect won’t last long, if at all. He can already feel it working, rejecting the drugs. He blinks sluggishly and staggers, head dizzy and he feels like he’s slipping, sliding down some sort of invisible slope.

 _“What are you doing what are you doing? Luke! LUKE!”_ Chandler is panicking, and Luke can feel the soul twist and writhe like some sort of wild animal inside his head.

He lurches, and for a moment he thinks he’s going to faint, or fall over, but then instead he retches.

Werewolf metabolism obviously doesn’t agree with sleeping pills.

The stuff he pukes up is watery and he can see the pills half-dissolved in the mix of saliva and food. His face twists and he looks up, clutching onto the sink and taking heaving breaths, shaking violently.

 _“What are you doing? You’re insane. I have an insane werewolf possessing my body,”_ Chandler whines.

“Shut up.” Luke hisses at his reflection. “This is _me_ ,” he mutters, staring at his wide eyes reflected in the sink mirror. “This is my body. Mine. And I’ll fight you for it if I have to.”

But the eyes he sees staring back at him are just empty hollows with tears welling up in the corners, reflecting nothing more than his own twisted soul.


	15. Fenrir

The howling starts at six in the morning.

It's not the hell hounds. Not yet. It's the dogs in the clinic, and in the background the cats are yowling too. Animals are sensitive to the supernatural, and they're nothing more than an early warning signal.

From where they are piling mountain ash into bags filled with a strange mixture of herbs and bones and dirt and tying them up, Lydia and Stiles hear the racket. The duo are bent over the table at the animal clinic, shoulders hunched and working vigorously. Scott's still half-way across town, trying to persuade the twins out of their apartment to try and help, pulling on strings and making deals that are going to come back later to bite him in the ass. Allison and Isaac have just got back with weapons, and leaving them in the building have now gone out to lay down mountain ash and goofer dust, waiting for the hounds to show. The plan is that they'll remain outside, try and draw the monsters out and hopefully Scott will show up soon with the twins.

"I don't approve of my clinic being used as a battle station," Deaton had said disapprovingly earlier that morning.

"We don't have anywhere else," Scott looked as frantic as they all had felt, presenting the problem to his boss who was surprisingly awake at the nightmarish hour. "With Derek gone the apartment is locked up. His house is a rotting wreck in the woods and whatever other dank place he found to hang out matches his personality in design and safety."

Deaton's eyes had been disapproving but warm. He was still an emissary, and maybe he wasn't tied to any pack in particular now, but if he had to be linked to one it would probably be Scott's haphazard circle of friends.

In the animal clinic Stiles jumps at the sound, sending dirt scattering to the floor. Lydia looks as if she is about to chide him but another howl snaps her jaws shut with a click.

"Dude," Stiles looks about in a panic. "Deaton said two hours. _He said two hours_!"

"I…" Lydia turns her head frantically from side to side. "They must have found our scent…" her voice trails off as another howl sounds out.

For the first time since last night when Isaac had first doubled over from the high pitched whine of the distant flare of Allison's arrow, Stiles begins to feel a fraction of fear within him, sitting uncomfortably in his gut like a broken shard of glass. Stiles grits his teeth, trying to feel brave, but the truth is he never feels brave, not before a big fight like this.

He doesn't really feel scared anymore either though. He just feels this stupid sense of calm and anticipation.

Lydia bottles the container of dirt, leaving it standing on the table while Stiles gathers up the box filled with bombs of graveyard dirt and the chinking bottles that they have only to set alight and throw to have their own personal fire to wield and destroy. They've promised Deaton that they're only going to use it when necessary. They don't want to burn the building down.

"Ready?" he asks Lydia, as he grabs his favourite baseball bat - the metal one - and  somehow managing to balance everything carries it through to the front reception, Lydia holding the door open for him. Deaton's already there, double-checking their wards and defences.

"No." Lydia says weakly, and she's not a fighter, not really, and if he had a choice she'd be well out of trouble, but the hounds are coming for them all. Once they have a scent they never lose it according to the books.

Sometimes the books get their facts wrong.

Deaton doesn’t. And Scott trusts him so that’s good enough for the rest of them.

"That's okay," he says, trying to be bright and positive and cheerful even though there is nothing positive and cheerful about this. "I'm not either."

***

"Where is he?"" Nate snaps at Lexi. Her sister cowers slightly under her rage as she begins an angry pacing up and down the loft floor. "Where the fuck is he?" she clenches her fists angrily, claws growing out and she relaxes, trying to push the shift back. It used to be easier, back when she had her family. They were her anchor, and the lack of them is far too noticeable every time she shifts.

Lexi shuffles her feet uneasily in the corner of her vision.

"I don't know," her sister says weakly. She's scared of her, Nate realises dimly and she closes her eyes tiredly.

"I just wanted to leave," Nate whispers. She had gone to sleep for two hours. Werewolves could function without that much sleep. Not brilliantly but they could function better than a normal human. She had just closed her eyes and when she had woken up with the morning sunrise Jethro had been gone.

"Why?" Lexi shakes her head, "Where else are we going to go? I… I like it here." she even ventures and Nate throws her head up towards the ceiling in frustration.

"It's not safe!" she shouts, and she wishes Jethro was here so she could shout at him instead, "Didn't you hear me, Lex? There are demons here! You know… the thing that killed mum and dad! Demons! We have to leave! But now Jethro's run off to play Scooby-Doo and we need to get out before…"

Something howls in the distance. Her head snaps around to the window and behind her Lexi stiffens.

"Nate?" the younger sister cautiously asks.

Nate stares mutely out towards the town, face creased into worry. "We've got to find Jethro."

***

The blade he holds awkwardly between his teeth by the handles was covered in glue and then dunked into mountain ash. From what he had learned from the books in the loft and from stories that Nate’s pack used to tell: mountain ash could kill a lot of things (it’s never managed to hurt him though). The blade is also made out of iron, because almost half the sources talk about the purity of an iron blade. It’s better to be safe than sorry and he’s taking all precautions that he can.

That being said: iron knives were hard to come by.

He's lost one crutch in his limping across town and now the remaining one is shoved under his left arm as he fiddles with the paperclips in the lock. He's never known an animal clinic - and what the hell is an animal clinic anyway? - to be a place that people regularly break into but then again Jethro's always been one for firsts.

Take last night for instance. He had been researching through the magical tomes, and he'd actually been trying to find out what had killed Nate's family, but he had gotten side-lined somewhere between a badly scrawled note on banshees with a picture paper-clipped in of a pretty red-headed girl and something about kitsune foxes. Nate remained adamant about demons, but Jethro had never believed in that sort of thing.

He might believe in ghosts, faced with cold hard proof, but demons?

They were just horror stories that the pack used to scare their cubs. They weren't real.

Were they?

The lock finally gives in and he limps in, somehow not dropping anything on the ground, including himself which he has already managed to do three times since he left the loft. He closes the door behind him considering the small building in front of him. The Pack that are based here were sensible in choosing this place.

Animals have a sixth sense for the supernatural. They'll warn the Pack well before the werewolves will pick up anything.

He considers briefly just walking in and introducing himself to them now, but if he were them he'd probably shoot himself. He’s just a random stranger to them. They’re just random strangers to him, but that still doesn’t mean he’s going to let them die. He’s better than that. So instead he prepares himself to find a dark corner and wait for the action to start.

He's not going to let anyone else get hurt because of these supposed 'demons'.

Not if he can help it.

***

"Shh," Allison says. She's standing a little way outside the clinic, and Isaac is behind her, trailing dirt everywhere. She's the one with the mountain ash, and she's keeping it as far away from Isaac as possible. "Did you hear that?" she asks.

Isaac's head snaps up towards the clinic. "The dogs are barking."

And that's their early warning signal, but they hadn't been expecting it for another hour or two at least.

Isaac's nostrils flare and the blonde turns around, looking beyond the car park to the street. Allison turns after him, and her eyes light on the figure standing at the end, watching calmly.

She can barely see him but she knows the guy smiles, and that his eyes blaze in hellish colours. His one hand rises in a wave, before he brings it to his mouth and whistles. She can hear it clearly, and she knows what it means.

"Should we…?" Isaac gestures at the guy.

Grabbing her bow from where it is resting on top of parked cars, and clipping her crossbow to her belt and quiver over her shoulder she turns determinedly towards the shadowy figure.

"Yes." she says calmly, and strides forwards so she can shoot the bastard down.

The monster just smiles.

***

The barking goes silent after a while. And somehow the silence is far worse that the hubbub of howling animals.

Deaton stands, and he has a crossbow in one hand and a rifle slung over his shoulder. Stiles is never going to be an emissary, because it’s a fucking dangerous job by the looks of how used to wielding the weapons Deaton is. Fucking peace keepers - yeah right-- "Will you two be okay?" the vet asks them, and his fingers twitch nervously.

"Where are you going?" Lydia asks weakly.

"I think I heard something," Deaton says, and it sounds like he's quoting a bad horror movie. Stiles wants to protest, because you don't separate in situations like this. Deaton is going to end up ripped to shreds. "You'll be fine," Deaton meets each of their worried gazes squarely. "I'll be right back." Stiles clenches his jaw and doesn't say anything as the vet vanishes, prowling away to the back of his clinic. He twirls his bat, almost hitting himself in the head and glances towards the entrance.

"Can you see anything?" he asks Lydia.

She doesn't say anything, and that's almost answer enough. She’s staring through the glass door so Stiles backs up slightly away from it. He catches sight of the shimmer of burnt flesh before it's gone. "Ah," he says, his grip on the bat slippery with sweat.

Lydia tears her gaze away from the monster, "It's circling," she whispers. "It's…" she falls silent, "It's gone."

And Stiles hardly dares to hold his breath, because it's not going to be that easy.

Is it?

Lydia is frowning, confused and she turns around to look at Stiles. "I think it's still--" she winces, as if she's been hit with a sudden headache. "Duck." she whispers. "You have to--"

"What?" Stiles moves towards her and she whirls upon him screaming.

"GET DOWN!" There is a scream in her words and Stiles obeys, because he doesn't want to stand around and question the all-knowing banshee. When Lydia Martin tells you to duck, he's going to fucking listen. He cradles his head, wincing in preparation of something.

There's nothing.

Cautiously Stiles raises his head. "Lydia?" he asks. It's all he has time to say before the window behind him shatters and glass rains down on him. He ducks his head, hands coming up to protect it as the fragments fall down around him like rain. Something flies over his head, something dark and warm. He can feel the thump as it hits the floor and his head snaps up, staring at the blurry form. It's like he's looking through thick, thick fog, and can see the flash of silver fangs and gleaming black eyes that are there and then they just… aren't.

He reaches for his baseball bat, and stands in a fluid movement far more graceful than he is ever normally. But adrenalin runs through him and he brings the metal bat smashing down on the beast.

He hears a crack as something breaks. Black blood appears dripping down the invisible hound in mid-air. It clings to the form like a thick viscous ink, outlining its shape to them, deformed and broken.

"Stiles that…" Lydia steps backwards and there is another horrible crack. "Move it," she whispers fiercely and the form shimmers, and Stiles can see the damn thing twisting itself back into shape, broken spine visible, the bone a rotten black colour. Then it's gone and Stiles is bolting, grabbing Lydia's hand and pulling her along. For once Lydia Martin isn't wearing one of her ridiculously short skirts, and has on a pair of form fitting trousers. Randomly Stiles thinks it might be the only time he's seen her wearing trousers (he thinks the world will end before Lydia Martin is seen dead in jeans) and at least it's easier for her to run away from the big bads chasing them.

The creature screams and then the steps start up behind them. They duck down the corridor to the surgery and the animal rooms, as Stiles mentally curses. He throws open the nearest door and shoves himself and Lydia through it. It's the operation room, and Stiles realises too late that their box of ammo is still back at the reception.

He slams himself against the door just as it bucks from the weight of the hound. Lydia grabs the container of mountain ash from where they had left it earlier on the table and leans over, trailing it along the door edge. It's thick and black and spills everywhere as Stiles leans his whole weight against the door.

She's barely completed it than the shaking of the door stops, and it's suddenly eerily still.

"Well you two are in a pickle, huh?"

Matt perches on the operating table. Stiles glares at him for choosing this inconvenient moment.

"You’re trapped." Matt shrugs, "Whatcha gonna do about that huh?" His legs swing back and forth and he laughs at their predicament. "Run, rabbit run rabbit run, run, _run_."

The beast slams against the door again just once and it startles him into motion. Lydia backs away in horror while Stiles scrambles into action, heading for the drawers filled with drugs and surgical tools for something, anything to help them out of this situation.

"Here comes the hound for some fun, fun, _fun_." Matt continues to sing. There is the soft sound of him slipping off the table and Stiles turns to him, fully expecting Matt to be leering at him, to look almost entertained as he prepares to watch them die.

Instead he whirls around and finds Scott staring at him with what can only be disappointment in his eyes. "Why do you bother?" Scott asks. Stiles blinks, because how did Scott get there? He doesn't consider it much beyond that, the question his friend asked ringing in his mind.

"I… I… what?" Stiles blusters, and he has eyes only for his friend. "Scott what…?"

"Why?" Scott shrugs, "Why bother? You're dead anyway."

Stiles shakes his head slowly from side to side. "No. Don't you talk like that. Don't you…"

"Looking for this?" Scott leans in close, reaching past him. Stiles stiffens, as his friend picks something up. It's a scalpel from a tray, dull tarnished and silver plated. The werewolf leans back slightly, uncoiling his fingers and the blade rests there on his palm as if Scott is offering it to Stiles.

Blade first.

"What?" the human frowns, "I don't…" He should look around for Matt, for Lydia, for the hound, but somehow all he can focus on is the shape of his best friend. His vision tunnels until that’s all he’s focusing on, Scott’s eyes and the sharp silver of the scalpel.

"Exactly." Scott's hand snaps up around the blade. "You don't. You don't anything." he sneers.

Stiles doesn't understand anymore. Why the hell was Scott there again…?

"You don't belong." Scott says dismissively. "We don't need you. You're a burden, Stiles! What do you think that you can honestly add to _my_ pack?" He frowns, shaking his head in genuine befuzzlement. "Allison shoots. She fights. Lydia's perceptive. And far, far cleverer than you. Isaac and Ethan and Aidan are wolves. They've claws and fangs and can fight and kill and _you_?" he laughs, and it's the same sound he makes when they share a joke, and that's what breaks Stiles. One hand reaches out to pat him on the shoulder gently. "And you…" he repeats, "What do you do?" he asks, then shrugs, "Well you've just answered your own question, haven't you?" his grip on Stiles' shoulder grows tight. Bruising tight. "You don't."

Stiles can't find the words to argue. The boy who can always find the words to talk can't think of anything to say. It chokes him up, clenching inside him and he opens his mouth.

"Shhh," Scott leans closer, "Don't try." he advises. The scalpel is still in his hand, clenched tightly and now he brings it in a twisting jab around towards Stiles.

It feels like a punch in the chest. It doesn't even hurt, but when he looks down the blade is protruding from his chest. He looks up and Scott's eyes are a blood red, and they are empty and cold and he doesn't care.

He doesn't care.

"Stiles!"

"You see?" Scott says, voice low. "Nobody is even going to miss you."

"Stiles!" Lydia's screaming. She’s his anchor, his tether, and she’s screaming. Stiles blinks and Scott's gone. The red-eyed monster is not there, and instead it's replaced by the flame of Lydia's strawberry blonde hair. She's kneeling in front of him, shaking him wildly, and her hands on his shoulders. They are warm and nothing like the cold grip of his friend. She’s grounding him, dragging him back and he takes a breath and it feels like he’s emerging from that ice cold water bath all over again.

"Scott…" Stiles tries to choke out, but there is nothing there. He can't form the words and Lydia rests her hand over his heart, checking his racing pulse.

"Stiles?" she asks, "You there?"

It hadn't been real.

It washes over him in a wave of warm, genuine relief, but it leaves behind a bitter aftertaste.

It had been an hallucination. It had been in his head.

It had been his worst nightmare come to life, looking at him with cold dead eyes and cold dead words and Stiles sucks in a heaving breath, feeling life burn through his muscles and Lydia rocks backwards on her heels.

"You with me?" she asks simply. "Don't… don't leave me." she adds, because despite everything they are still trapped here waiting for the werewolves to show up.

He still can't find the words so he just nods.

He's there with her.

For now.

***

He hears the shattering of a window and suddenly realises that he's not cut out for this. Jethro is still limping along on one crutch, a makeshift weapon clutched in one hand.

There is another smashing noise from somewhere in the building, and gritting his teeth Jethro tries to move as if he isn't feeling like he's been through a blender, and he isn't prone to falling over when his muscles just can't physically work anymore.

Adrenaline though, is a beautiful thing, and Jethro decides to forgo his crutch, tossing it to one side with the plan to retrieve it later. He stumbles a bit from the lack of support, but he finds his balance and rounds the corner.

"Nope," he says, at the sight of the monsters whose flesh is blood and veins and muscle and who has three or four sets of snarling teeth. It's stalking down the corridor from where a back door hangs open on broken hinges at the end of the corridor. He stumbles back and then a hand forcefully grabs him and pulls his aside. He splutters, spotting the dark skinned vet wielding a rifle.

"Get back!" the man shouts, and for a vet he's pretty damn badass as he sights and pulls the trigger.

Black blood paints the walls from where the bullet pierced the hound's head. There is a hole right through its deformed skull. The monster just shakes its head as if someone had thrown a ball at it, and not shot a bullet through his skull.

Holy fuck, Jethro thinks, as the monster doesn't fall. It continues towards them.

Another shot rings out, and the vet cocks and reloads. This time a chunk of flesh is torn away from the chest, exposing ribs and a heart that Jethro can see pumping strongly.

The vet pulls the trigger once more and rips through the heart. The hell hound stumbles, and flashes its teeth at them. It's not dead, and Jethro doubts there is a mortal weapon that could kill it, unless you had a magic knife handy. It's stopped approaching them, and as another bullet tears out a gory chunk of intestine it decides to try an easier prey. With a frantic snarl it spins, loping away.

Jethro relaxes slightly, and then suddenly the vet is lowering the gun and glaring at him, "Who are you?" he asks.

***

Allison and Isaac never make it to the end of the street.

She thinks, as she spins her bow out to the side, hitting something back that yelps in protest, that that was the plan. The monster just wanted them to move away from their protections, and the animal clinic where Stiles and Lydia and Deaton are.

Isaac snarls, fully morphed now. He swipes out with his claws, but they pass through thin air as the monster shies away.

There is a snap of jaws to her left and Allison turns away from Isaac's fight to lash out at the flash of teeth. Once again her bow connects with something heavy and she knocks it back. She sees the shadow as it falls sprawling across the ground. The quarters are too close range for arrows, at least to shoots with, and so she draws one from her quiver and throws herself down towards the monster, stabbing it arrow-head first into the shape she had just knocked back, one knee on the ground and her hand wrapped around the shaft.

There is something sticky that wells up from the warm and bloody body. She lets go the arrow, hunter's instinct warning her of other monsters. She doesn't bother staying there to try and see the thing, instead standing and whirling around, wielding her bow like a blunt bat and definitely hitting something as she hears a crack and sees black blood and spittle spray out to one side.

There's that awkward moment when there is nothing else to shoot or hit at. To one side Isaac has his hands buried into one creature's chest, and she can see the flesh and bones that he tears it apart in desperation. They just don't die and so he's ripping it apart, because it can't put itself back together _that_ easily.

Can you kill something that can't be killed? Allison wonders, and with hunter's instinct she grabs another arrow in preparation to stab something.

There is a deep growl behind her, and in trepidation she remembers the beast she had stabbed to the ground.

Scott needs to get here soon, Allison prays, and she spins her bow around into position, notching the arrow in her hand to the string. Spinning around in one swift movement she draws and lets it fly. With the beast so close it's impossible to miss. The hell hound's head snaps to one side with a crunch as the arrow pierces brain and bone. There is the shift of another shadow to one side and Allison reaches for another arrow, glancing over her shoulder in case more are around.

Now would be a good time, Scott, she thinks.

Hurry up.

***

Stiles sits with his back to the wall beyond the operating table. His knees are curled up to his chest and Lydia crouches besides him. They can see through the metallic legs, to the scattering of mountain ash in front of the door, and the occasional shake as the beast throws itself against the entrance.

The pair stare at the door, waiting for the inevitable moment when the flimsy lock breaks.

To the left of them against the wall the harsh white light used for x-rays flickers, casting long shadows across the room.

"We can't go out there," Lydia sounds calm, analysing the situation. She also sounds like someone who can't be argued with, but Stiles still tries.

"There's only one of them," he says, but his voice is broken and shot through. Somewhere along the lines he's gone from seeing ghosts to downright hallucinating.

"Stiles, you're seeing things that aren’t there and almost had a panic attack," Lydia is far too logical for her own good. It makes Stiles nervous and he swallows down air, but it’s more of a loud gulp. His heart still races in his chest, and he thinks the wolves can probably hear it a mile away.

"It's going to break the door down eventually." Stiles tells her, being the realist because she must have noticed the straining hinges by now. "We should be ready for when it does."

She pushes away from the wall and grabs the container of mountain ash. Stiles wonders numbly where Deaton gets it all from. The banshee turns to him, lips pursed and holds out a hand. He takes it and she yanks him to his feet. "You open the door." she says. "I throw the ash. Then you bash it's brains out. We run."

"That's your plan?" Stiles asks, and there's a note of hysteria to his voice. He's too twitchy, and he wants to swallow a pill or something. Directing his nervous adrenaline to pacing he crosses the room towards the door and then changes his mind moving back to Lydia. "This is a rubbish plan," he is telling her, when with a snarl something collides with the door. For a moment it creaks, and the hinges whine in protest before snapping outright.

He spins around as the door falls inwards towards them with a crash. There's a large weight on top of it, and Stiles can see the hazy shimmers of the beast as it stands.

At least, he thinks he can. There's no guarantee that it isn't an hallucination.

Lydia's still surprisingly calm, and she plunges her hand into the mountain ash, scooping up an handful and with a sideways sweep of her arm as if scattering confetti, she throws it to where the monster it standing up.

The dust travels with an unerring speed and distance, as if it was magnetically drawn to the beast. Lydia's not a druid, nor an emissary, but she's just thrown the mountain ash like one. The thick black dust clings to the hound and for the first time it allows Stiles to see the grotesque structure of bones that are snapped and broken into place. The ash settles on the beast and almost as soon as it does the hell hound lets out a howl filled with pain. Stiles thinks about the picture, of the bloody flesh, and thinks about what salt feels like in a wound, and he can almost imagine what the hound is feeling.

The mountain ash makes it easier to see when he finds himself moving forwards, and he swings the bat at its head. There is a sickening crunch and it is knocked aside, and now there is a section of skull missing from the hazy dust coated image. The monster stumbles away, crashing into the wall and then sliding down. A faint whine tells Stiles that it isn't dead and he grabs Lydia by the hand. They skirt the hound to the right, and head out of the door, the pair of them moving back out back to the reception.

They don’t want to be trapped in a small room like that again.

It's three paces to their right and then around the corner, to the sunny, narrow entrance. Stiles skids before the mountain wood barrier, at least what remains of it. It's smashed into pieces, and beyond he can see the broken glass of the entrance door. He spots their box of weapons and steps towards it, but his leg smashes into something and he goes flying, arms pin wheeling wildly.

"Stiles!" Lydia screams from behind. She's staring at something on the floor, and now Stiles looks he can see the air hazing as if in the heat wave.

He lands heavily, hands coming out to push himself up as he draws his legs up and away from the hazy patch of air. He scrambles backwards and there is a shimmer where he can see the beast perfectly, and then it's gone. He can't see it but he knows it's there.

His back thumps into the wooden barricade between the surgery and the entrance corridor, and he knows the box is on the counter above him.

He reaches upwards blindly, not daring to take his eyes off the monster that is uncoiling itself from the ground. The movements are smooth and languid. Every now and then Stiles catches a clear image of the hell hound in its full bloody glory before it once more shimmers out of his perception.

Stiles' hand claws at the desk, and there is a thump behind and above him. He freezes.

"How many?" he asks Lydia.

"Two." she is frozen by the door, container of ash in her hands useless.

Something breaths on the back of his neck and Lydia stares horror struck at him. The shadow in front of him shifts upwards, and he can see the claws sliding out as it reaches one paw forwards, the foot scraping against the floor with a whine that makes a shiver run down his spine.

Stiles remains frozen, one beast behind him, perched on the counter, and another in front of him, joints clicking in and out of place. He strains for where his bat lies, just beyond his fingertips.

There is a blur of movement that comes out of nowhere, and the one in front of him lunges. Stiles can't see a thing but he still shuts his eyes and throws himself out of the way.

He can feel the claws and warm, bloody body pass by him and Stiles is only half aware of Lydia screaming.

***

Scott's motorbike whines in protest as he slams the brakes on. It’s taken him too long, to travel from the clinic to the twins’ apartment and back. Too long, and too much time has passed already. He might be too late. He should have stayed with his pack, he should be here already fighting. But at least he has back up, despite the extra time it took him to convince Aidan and Ethan, at least they now stand a better chance…

He skids around the corner much too fast and then to make matters worse, his bike hits something warm and solid and bloody.

Scott is pitched from his ride and despite the lack of cat genetics; he rolls and ends up in a crouch. His bike skids across the ground, engine dying with a splutter, before the whole frame shakes and drops sharply to the ground as something shifts out from underneath the green motorbike.

Scott snarls, his eyes bleeding red but twin roars drown out his growl.

Aidan and Ethan don't know the meaning of the word subtle. Their bikes come roaring around the corner and one of the twins, most likely Aidan, guns the throttle and the bike hammers in a straight line down the middle of the street.

There is a sick crunch and a spray of black blood as the bike passes, and a pain shriek and snap as the bike hits something else. With a crash the body lands against a parked car, setting off the alarms screaming. It slides off with a smear of black blood and falls limply to the ground.

Seconds later the alarms die as something else lands on the roof, denting it in a decidedly body-shape. Said body flails, yellow eyes flashing as he tries to avoid sliding down on top of the hound. Black ichor trails from Isaac’s claws and he shakes his head, dazed. He pulls a face at the blood everywhere, and narrowly avoids standing on the hound that Scott can only half-see. The thing is near-dead: arrows sticking out of its chest, broken off shards that make it whimper as the beta kicks the beast to one side.

Scott launches himself forwards, intercepting another hound as Isaac staggers to meet him, the pair meeting together  in the middle of the road.

"Where the hell were you?" Isaac looks around frantically, and then swipes at what appears to be nothing in mid-air. A wet gurgle tells Scott otherwise as the beta werewolf rips out the jugular of a hound. It doesn't stop the monster, but at that moment Ethan tackles the shimmery shadow, and the two descend to the ground in a mess of fur and blood and teeth.

A familiar whip of an arrow can be heard as at the far end of the car park Allison shoots something. There is a spraying of blood and Allison darts forwards, following the path of the arrow with one of her Chinese ring daggers in one hand. She stabs an invisible shape that writhes beneath her, and then twists and withdraws. She spins around and slashes across a tendon or muscle, because the hell hound sneaking up on her collapses to the ground in a rush of dark choking smoke and a yelping screech.

"You took your time!" she snaps at him from thirty-odd metres away, but then she's turning to hit something away with her bow.

"Scott!" Ethan throws away the hell hound he had been wrestling with just as Scott spots the shadowy dog circling him. Its form shimmers in and out of sight, and thankfully he can see it more often than not. Then the form solidifies, and it lunges.

Scott snarls and lashes out, feeling his claws rip through flesh. There is a whine, and the feeling of a large body flying away. It crashes down and he can see the spray of black blood, the madness in the eyes as it climbs right back up again.

An arrow finds the centre of its forehead and it throws its head back. Another arrow flies towards it but misses, and Scott can see Allison frantically trying to sight at the monster that is nothing more than shimmers of air and shadows and black blood. They can't see the beasts to fight them, just a distorted image, half reflected. Lydia can though, but she's not there.

She's not there.

Where is the banshee when you need her?

As if on cue someone screams.

***

Jethro skids around the corner, just in time to see the lanky brunette throw himself to one side. The beast that had been lunging for him crashes into the counter, as the guy grabs hold of a baseball bat of all things, and rolls over, hitting out with it. It catches the second beast that had leapt from the top of the counter across the jaw.

Beast number two twists its head around at an impossible angle and closes one of its jaws on the baseball bat, tearing it from the guy's hands. Then its head twists around in preparation to rip into the teenager, and without thinking Jethro shoves the red-head girl back towards Deaton and moves towards them. He crosses the distance with a few energised steps filled with determination and then he twists the knife around so that the handle faces down towards the floor. With one vicious backstab, he drives it into the snarling head of the beast.

It gives a great shudder, and wrenches away, tearing the knife from Jethro's hand. It seizes, head rolling from side to side and jaws snapping. It falls back onto the first beast behind it that snaps and snarls and then bodily forces the seizing hound out of the way. The first beast’s muscles tense, prepared to leap when something smashes into it.

Jethro stumbles back, turning to see the red-head empty handed. The hell hound yelps as black stuff scatters over it, spilling from a wooden container that the girl had thrown.

Shots ring out as the vet - Deaton - finally shows up. The beast covered in what Jethro thinks is probably mountain ash flinches back, while the second one with his knife in its head slumps down, its black eyes rolling back in its head, muscles still sporadically twitching.

"What the fu-?" The guy on the floor scrambles backwards and then upright, staring at Jethro, and then past Jethro to where the red-head and the vet stand. "Who the hell are you?" he asks.

"I…" Jethro opens his mouth, words dying on his tongue.

"This is Jethro Ascott," Deaton steps forwards, rifle trained on where the two hounds are still seizing on the floor. "He broke into the building to help us fight hell hounds."

The dark-haired teenager winces. His excuse had been rubbish and judging by their looks the other two teenagers agree.

The guy runs a hand through his hair, moving away from the monsters. He stops next to the girl, looking out into the corridor, stiffening. "Uh… thanks for the save… I'm Stiles. Lydia." he points to himself then at the girl, "We should… uh… we should get out of here…" he's walking backwards, and Jethro wonders what's wrong.

Another shriek answers his question and the red-head - Lydia - starts away from the doorway behind them. "Ah." she says, "I forgot about that one."

Deaton shoots the two hounds writhing on the floor of his reception in the head, keeping them down as their eyes roll about wildly in their skulls. Jethro considers his knife blade buried in one's head and then with a wince he yanks it out. Black stuff spews out, and some of it sprays across his clothes. He almost gags at the smell of old blood, and presses a wrist to his nose.

"Gonna' have to buy new clothes, dude," Stiles grins exasperatedly at him, backing out towards the shattered doorway. He gestures at the black ichor splattered across his own hoodie. "Not enough detergent to get these clothes clean."

Jethro swallows because he doesn’t have money to buy new clothes which means they’ll have to steal again, and that sets this hollow guilty feeling in his stomach. He doesn’t really have that many sets of clothes to spare either, but he should be really worrying about the hounds trying to kill them. So he keeps quiet and follows behind, Lydia slipping in front of him as Deaton brings up the rear, cocking the rifle rather vigorously.

"Stiles, tell Scott he needs to find his own base," Deaton growls out.

Jethro just wishes he'd followed Nate's advice and stayed out of trouble for once.

***

"Nate, we have to help them." Lexi whispers frantically to her sister. "We have to do something!" her eyes are wide like a cute puppy dog and still Nate shakes her head, torn.

"No…" she says, "We can't."

"Who are you trying to convince?" Lexi whines.

Nate can feel her wolf rise up with a howl, but her focus still remains on pack. She's not a leader. She's been kidding herself that she can be, but even if she can't lead, can't fight, she can still protect and guard. "No. We find Jethro, and get out of here."

"No." Lexi starts forwards.

In the distance the alpha gets thrown aside as if something had batted him with one paw.

In the distance the hunter's bow is torn away, clasped within a strong pair of jaws and Nate can here the crack of splintering wood.

Out of sync the hunter stumbles backwards, and with a snarl the beta with gold eyes sinks his claws into the head of the nearest monster, working his way along the street towards the girl. Did he not know she was a hunter? Nate can smell the wolfsbane and gun oil from here, even over the scent of sulphur and blood and wolf.

"Don't," Nate hisses, trying to command her sister.

Lexi shakes her head, "There's a hunter there too Nate!" she argues. "…We… I'm not hiding here and doing nothing while this pack gets slaughtered. Not this time."

Nate stretches out her hand to scoop up the back of her sister's collar but Lexi is too quick, and it slips through her fingers. "No!" she hisses frantically as with a snarl Lexi skids into the middle of the fight. One of the blue-eyed beta twins freezes at the sight of her, but then her sister - her little sister - leaps up and kicks one of the hounds in the head with a flying high kick.

The twin looks mildly impressed, if still confused.

Nate's muscles are coils of tension and she finally breaks and launches herself after her sister. She feels herself transform, and wonders what colour her eyes are as she runs across to the action, claws ready.

This is not what she signed up for.

***

Isaac and Allison are at the far end, the huntress having lost her bow. So instead she whirls about in a flurry of blades, stabbing and swiping at any monsters Isaac throws her way. She feels like she could fight forever, endless motions of stab, thrust, duck and spin. It's like some sort of dance to her, and it makes her blood heat up as she carries out the motions.

Aidan's technique could use a little bit of work, since he seems to favour wrestling across the ground behind them. He throws a hell hound into another car, and she vaguely wonders how they are going to explain this to Scott's dad this time.

She's not sure how many beasts there are. It probably seems like more because they can't see them, and that every time they wound one they're only down for about two minutes, just enough time for her to send another one whining away before it leaps forwards again.

There is a crash as Scott is thrown into a car. It looks like the car Isaac had been tossed into earlier, and the alpha slides down weakly. He's bleeding from a cut to the head, but the wound is already gone. Allison pauses to stab one of her daggers into what she is pretty sure is the spine of a hound, before kicking it away angrily. When she looks up again Ethan is fighting alongside two other werewolves. For a moment she thinks one of them is Cora, but their hair is too pale and as the taller one slashes with claws, whirling around, she sees red eyes.

Swallowing she turns around, looking down to the end of the road where the man had stood with yellow-eyes.

He’s still there, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets. He grins at her and she stabs at another hound almost absent minded, rolling it off her blades and over to where Isaac bloodily sinks his hands into it, trying to rip it apart.

For a moment everything seems to go silent around her as she focusses on the man. Then there is a crash of footsteps that break the silence and Scott is next to her.

He's seen the same thing she has, and the man knows it. With a casual movement he pushes up off the wall and purses his lips.

If he whistles Allison can't hear it. She's too busy focusing on the eyes of hell fire, and she wonders idly if the hell hounds are linked to the hell fire gaze.

With a baying howl the beast Isaac is currently dissecting yanks itself backwards off his claws. It falls down, and its form seems to erupt into shadow.

Between one blink and the next the hounds are called off. Aidan swipes around angrily but the hell hound standing over him is already gone. Ethan lunges but his claws meet only road side, and the girl kicks out at mid-air.

Between one blink and the next the man has vanished. She is suddenly aware of the bloody ichor that sticks to her skin and hands and hair and that she's got claw marks across her collar bone.

Between one moment and another everything is quiet and she and Scott exchange one silent look.

That sort of says it all really.


	16. Our Two Bloods Mingled Be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the first hint of a crossover. This is a crossover, I swear.  
> Also I confess I love Peter's ambiguous morals, and that trailer "I'm a creature of habit..." Let's not talk about the pain people went through to get that wonderful trailer and just anxiously await S4, okay?

The cup is nothing special.

Sam thinks that maybe that’s the point.

It’s a small wooden bowl. He can just about wrap his both hands around the full circumference of it. It looks simple at first glance, but upon closer inspection there are intricate carvings along the edge and along the base. The wood is something Sam doesn’t recognise, but he recognises the black powder that’s been inlaid into the symbols lining the bowl.

“It’s mountain ash,” he says, to his brother, and Dean spares a glance from the road to look at where Sam is scraping out the powder with a knife, sniffing at it.

“Dude,” Dean sighs, “Don’t sniff that.”

Sam stops, dusting his hands off and pocketing his knife. He hates doing this to such a holy relic - it’s slightly appalling. His older brother seems convinced he’s hell bound anyway and probably wouldn’t care about Sam’s arguments. “And salt?” he asks himself rhetorically, because Dean’s not going to give a useful answer. “And what I think might be iron and silver filings.”

“Well that pretty much ticks off any supernatural baddie getting a hold of it. Any ghosts with twitchy fingers…” Dean says, shrugging. He snatches the bowl with one hand, holding the wheel with the other as he examines it. Sam pulls a face at him and seeing it Dean grins, tossing the grail back to him.

For one terrified moment he almost drops it, before his fingers close firmly around the bowl. “What the hell?” he hisses at his brother who should really be concentrating on driving at the moment. “Dude. Don’t.”

Dean glances over, and Sam wishes he would just keep his eyes on the road. “Sam that thing has survived since the time of -- _Jesus Christ!_!” Somehow the sentence gets turned into an exclamation and Sam is suddenly flying forwards as the brakes slam on.

Their car probably breaks a million safety laws, he thinks as he hits his head on the panel in front of him, and then shoves himself up and looks up at whatever it was that Dean braked so harshly for.

“Holy crap,” he says. The car headlights catch sight of a man standing in front of their car. He’s snarling at them like some sort of rabid animal. He even has the teeth to match. His eyes are a bright gold.

Sam would say it was almost demon yellow if it wasn’t for the claws and fangs and--

“Werewolf,” Dean says, “Out _here_?” he adds, almost to himself. “Grail okay?”

Sam grabs for it reflexively and shoves it in the glove compartment unceremoniously. He pushes the door open just as the werewolf bolts for the side of the road. It dips down into a dim, open forest and Sam curses. It’s dark and they should really just leave it be, but he’s a hunter and--

“Come on,” Dean’s pre-empting his moves here, climbing out of the car like some sleek predator. The trunk is open before Sam’s out, and Dean shoves the boxes of silver bullets towards Sam.

“I don’t think that’s going to work.” Sam slips into hunting mode, “Did you see that thing?”

“I almost ran over _that thing_!” Dean grouches, “Damn near smashed into my baby.”

“Dean, we’ve seen werewolves before.” Sam points out, “They look human. Sure the eyes glow, they get the fangs and claws but compared to that? That thing looked barely human.”

“Different breed same species,” Dean shrugs. “They should die the same way.”

“But what if they don’t?” and Sam digs into the trunk and pulls out an old cardboard box, bullets rattling in it. It’s heavy and has been virtually untouched. There’s a sharp smell to it, and not just because it’s old. “Just in case,” he adds.

Dean grins at him as Sam tips the box onto his brother’s spread palm. Dean picks one up between the fingers of his other hand and holds it up to the light. “Wolfsbane.” There’s a glint in his brother’s eyes.

“Just in case.”

***

The forest is dim, and thick with the smell of moss. Dean treads through it silently, and Sam wonders how similar this landscape is to the half-light of Purgatory. His brother has a blade out, holding it at an angle to the ground while Sam has his gun out, cautiously glancing at every shadow and oddly shaped bush.

His brother pauses just up ahead, staring at the ground. The brothers are never going to be the trackers that Bobby was, but they have an innate ability passes down through both the Winchester and Campbell lines to stalk their prey. Dean’s had managed to find scuff marks on the ground, and one clear muddy footprint of a human foot that is misshapen and yes - those are definitely claws.

Dean makes motions to separate, and Sam shakes his head. No. Not after last time. He raises one hand, frantically signing to his brother and then finishing with jabbing his finger along the route the feral werewolf had gone.

“Sure it’s a feral?” Dean asks as Sam passes him along the trail, his weight sinking into the soft ground still damp from the rain that morning. “There’s no moon.”

Dean’s right. That should have been the first thing Sam should have looked for. He’s always made a habit of keeping up with the moon cycle since so many sacrifices and rituals take place on the night of the various lunar orbits. The full moon was two weeks ago. And now at late dusk the new moon can’t even be seen in the darkening sky.

Then again after the chaos Eve had brought with her, none of the things that went bump in the night really listened to the lore. He says as much to Dean.

His brother just shrugs, “Yeah, but remember that werewolf chick? The one with the video camera?”

Sam throws his mind back and comes up with the college murders, a blonde girl named Kate and a bloody documentary. “The pureblood,” he says, “They could control the shift somewhat.”

“Still ate hearts though. As did Garth’s little pack.”

“Which is why--“ Sam slips the round of silver out and replaces it with the wolfsbane, “We’ve got these. But we’re not shooting until we know what this werewolf is doing.”

“Why not?” Dean hisses, pushing forwards after Sam until they walk side by side, heads ducked low and glancing around at the trees. “It’s a monster, Sam. Last time I looked we _killed_ monsters!”

“Like Garth?” Sam hisses, “Or that… Peruvian fat sucking---“ he feels stupid just saying it and stops, point made.

Dean glares at him. Sam thought Dean had lost this ‘kill everything’ spiel, but his brother’s lost sight of the light at the end of the tunnel somewhere along this rocky road, and it’s probably that demon mark burned into his arm that doesn’t help things.

Any more discussion about monster ethics are withheld however, when there is a pained howl from up ahead.

The brothers share a glance. “Looks like we’re not the only ones hunting this sucker,” Dean says, before taking off, Sam on his heels.

The slight hill rolls up and then dips towards a clearing. Jumping over a tree log Sam catches sight of shapes through the trees. He hears a choking splutter.

“--doesn’t mean we’re friends--“

“--like I’d be _friends_ with a--“

Dean skids into the clearing first, and he’s managed to switch his blade for the gun he was packing. Sam follows, and the pair of them pause, guns aimed and ready. A few metres ahead of them two men spin around. The first looks composed and calm, short haired and pale eyes. He’s dressed like a hunter, rifle over his shoulder and crossbow in hand, muddy hiking boots scuffing the ground as his weight shifts in preparation for a fight. The second has sleek blonde hair, dark clothes. His nostrils flare as if scenting them.

His eyes are a bright electric blue.

A third man Sam hadn’t noticed before slides off the blue-eyed guy’s claws and falls limply onto the ground, yellow fading from his gaze as he dies. It was the same person who had run across the road, except now the features have morphed until they look human once more, all traces of the feral animal wiped away.

The first man, obvious a hunter is tall and wiry but there is thick muscle packed together that tense as he turns. He stops in alarm at the sight of the brothers. He makes an abortive movement for his gun which is cut off when Dean slips his safety off. "Don't try it," his brother warns.

The second man steps away from the body and towards them. His eyes flare like a light, a bright electric blue and he spreads out his hands almost placating. Sam shakes his head, "No really," he says. "Don't."

"You cops?" the hunter says sharply. "Look this isn't what it looks like--"

"It isn't? So you _didn't_ just _off_ a feral werewolf?" Dean spits out, and the hunter freezes. "Oh yes," Sam's brother is almost gleeful. "Wolfsbane bullets." he tilts the gun barrel. He grins and its razor sharp and dangerous.

"Hunters?" the blue-eyed man steps forwards almost merrily, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

The hunter blocks him off with one hand and a glare. "I'm not a werewolf." The hunter says calmly. "My name is Chris Argent and I'm a hunter. Like you."

Sam drops his weapon letting it point to the ground at the name. Dean stares at him curiously as he exclaims, "Argent?"

Dean relaxes slightly, "The French shifter experts?" he recognises the name too.

Argent grins wryly. "The one and only." Behind him the werewolf glares at them.

"And you're working with a wolf yourself to hunt down rogue ferals." Sam prompts. He’s still assuming the dead wolf was a feral after organs, but he’s heard enough rumours from hunting with the Campbells that speak of the pure blood wolves that are bred from the Alpha.

His fingers twitch at the prospect of stuff to learn and he mentally promises to scour the bunker when he gets back to base.

Said werewolf shrugs, "Who are you to judge?"

"I'm Sam and this is my--"

"Dean Smith." His brother interrupts, and he's clearly uncomfortable with giving their real names. Thinking about it Sam can see why. "Sam Wesson." he gestures to where Sam is debating whether to put his gun away or not.

Argent frowns. "Like Smith and Wesson?" he asks.

Dean grins, "Yeah, you'll be surprised that never gets old." his voice and tone are perfect: bordering on just the right amount of irritation and sentimentality to their names. It’s genuine, because they get it all the time what with a surname like ‘Winchester’.

The werewolf tilts his head to one side frowning, as if he can’t tell if they’re lying or not. Sam and Dean are born liars, and Sam once lived four years as a lie. He doesn’t know if that could make it past a werewolf’s sharp ears though.

“Any reasons why a wolf and a hunter are working together?” Dean questions.

Argent’s glance at the blue-eyed wolf is one full of bitterness and there’s very little companionship in the gaze.

“Peter Hale,” the werewolf in question pushes past and holds out a hand as if to shake. Neither brother accept it and he looks a bit put out, stepping back sulkily. “And we were trying to find out some information.”

“From a feral half out of his mind?” Sam asks, “That seems a bit pointless, doesn’t it?”

“He was an omega,” Argent says, as if that should mean something to the brothers. “His pack were killed by something. Something that I think could affect others.”

“Are you--“ Dean tilts his head to one side questioningly and the action is so angel-like Sam almost shoots his brother on principle. Dean really had to stop learning behavioural habits from his boyfriend, “Are you _helping_ the things you hunt?”

The wolf interrupts Argent’s answer, “You know maybe you and your boyfriend should just stay out of this,” Peter smirks at them, his body posture screaming dangerous.

Both Sam and Dean splutter, beginning their excuses. Damn Dean for interrupting him mid-saying 'my brother' because now the other two were convinced he had been saying 'my boyfriend'.

"He's not my boyfriend. We're broth--"

"He's already got a boyfriend. Stand-up guy named Castiel." Sam smiles innocently at Chris Argent. Dean steps on his foot but he doesn't let his grin waver, not even when he gets an elbow in his side. He gets a set of raised eyebrows and then an answer to his question.

"Nous protégeons ceux qui ne peuvent pas se protéger eux-mêmes," Argent mutters, as if it's some sort of catch line. Sam's never been great at French, and thankfully Argent repeats it in English. "We protect those who can't protect themselves." he shrugs, "And if that means teaming up with a sociopath then I'm prepared to do it." He looks between the other two hunters looking a bit lost, “There’s a pack where I live and they’ve been running into problems,” he adds. “I’m trying to track down the cause rather than fighting the symptoms.”

His opening up finally allows Sam to relax. Dean doesn’t, but then again Dean is eyeing the blue-eyed werewolf. “You part of that pack?” he asks.

“No,” Hale’s grin is thin. “Not really. I don’t really have much of a pack anymore--“ he casts Argent a sideways glance as if he is the reason for this, “But I help out where I can,” he adds in slyly, like a snake.

There’s tension between the pair, and Sam wonders why they’re working together when it’s obviously such a bad match up. That’s when Dean’s phone rings loudly, rock music pounding through the speakers in some vague tune and everybody jumps a mile.

“Sorry,” Dean looks sheepish, but the expression vanishes as he sees the screen. He glances at Sam excitedly and just the look in his eyes tells Sam that it’s Castiel. “I’ve got to take this,” he says to the others, and flips up the phone, pacing off into the woods. Sam catches the tail end of “Cas? Man where the hell have you been!? We’ve been running after some friends of yours. The name ‘Kamael’ sound familiar?” before the voice trails off. Hale is still listening however, but Dean knows to keep walking, because after another few seconds the wolf sighs in disappointment.

“Boyfriend,” Sam mouths, “Did you get the info you wanted from the feral?” the younger Winchester gestures towards the dead wolf.

Hale sniffs derisively and Argent answers, “Not really.”

“Can I help?” Sam asks, suddenly aware that he’s a bit outnumbered now that Dean’s left.

“Unless you know anything about seeing ghosts I don’t think so,” Hale answers sharply.

Sam shrugs, shifting uncomfortably, “You salt and burn the bones,” he says. Any hunter worth their salt knows that, but then again the Argents are almost as infamous as the Campbells and even he and Dean themselves. They specialise in shifters, not rowdy household poltergeists. “Or iron.” He adds, “They don’t like iron.” He stops, because salting and burning isn’t going to work anymore.

The rules have changed.

“There are problems with the veil,” he adds, “Ghosts aren’t passing on so it makes sense that they’re more of them.”

Argent shakes his head, “That’s not the cause though. There’s something else.”

Yeah, the angels got kicked out of heaven, Sam thinks, but doesn’t speak. Oh and Abaddon is raising demons from the bottom corners of the pit. He just gestures at the body, “You need help?” he asks, “Then maybe go get a beer somewhere and get out of these woods?” he gestures around.

He has no idea what Dean will say to this, but having another hunter on their contact list might be useful. The wolf he can’t say much about, but he doesn’t really trust the guy on principle, even if the eyes weren’t such an unnatural blue and there wasn’t still blood under the nails.

***

Dean’s standing back at the road waiting for them. He looks tense and worried and when Sam looks towards him he nods his head shortly and sharply and then mouths something that Sam can’t see.

The younger Winchester is just annoyed that Dean got out of hacking the body of the other werewolf in half and then burying it with wolfsbane around the grave

“They aren’t ferals,” he hisses at his brother when he gets closer. “No organs. No hearts. They run in packs.”

“Garth runs with a pack.”

“He still eats organs. Look--“ Sam glances around but he’s arranged to meet Hale and Argent in town, and so the road is empty, the Impala parked at the side where they had left it. “Maybe the curse spreads two ways? Through a bite, or through genetics. It can be passed down through families, right?”

“Yeah?” Dean slips into the driver’s seat, and sticks the key in. “And?”

“So what if there are two types of werewolves?” Sam proposes following his brother into the car. Overhead the clouds are dark, blocking out the stars and there’s a splash of rain on the windscreen. “Not just bitten and blood wolves, but if we take it right back to the first one. The Alpha.”

“So what, Eve’s puppy had kids who aren’t hungry for organs and then he bit someone and they are?”

“They wouldn’t have the control needed to resist that.” Sam emphasises with gestures, “The bite must change the curse, so that there are two strains.”

“Then how come…” Dean shifts in his seat to look at Sam, “…people bitten by wolves from _this_ blood strain don’t hunger for hearts?”

Sam shrugs, “That guy that was killed, they called him an omega. His pack had been killed. Maybe without a pack they do just twist and become the ferals we’re used to hunting. A few too many bites with the wrong people who don’t have control and you end up with your usual full moon monster again.”

Dean considers Sam’s proposal. “Let’s see what Argent has to say,” he says, finally twisting the key. The engine roars to life. “He’s meant to be the expert, right?”

“What about Cas?” Sam presses as the car slips back onto the road. “He finally discovered his phone again, huh? Where is he now?”

His brother looks uneasy. “He’s getting about. He says he has a case for us. I told him to make his way to the bunker and we’d pick him up. Could also drop off the Grail. See what he thinks about that.”

“You didn’t tell him?” Sam is surprised. Dean tells Castiel everything.

His brother snorts. “Not over the phone. Later. Once we’ve had a little chat with Argent and his pet wolf.”

Sam didn’t really think Peter Hale seemed like much of a pet. In fact the hunter and wolf both seemed to strongly despise one another.

***

He’s proven right when they pull up at the town bar and find Chris Argent leaning outside his car alone.

“Where’s Hale?” Dean steps out, looking around.

Argent shrugs, “He took off.”

“Friendly fella’, huh?”

“You could say that,” the hunter replies darkly. “Personally I’m still open to the idea of putting a bullet in his head.”

“Well don’t let us stop you,” Dean shrugs.

Sam decides that Chris Argent is nice, and fairly respectable as hunters go. He has quite a strong moral grounding, and he claims his daughter keeps him there.

“I’m retired,” he tells them sometime that night, after several rounds of beers, “Live up in California. Just had to choose the town that has all the supernatural activity going on.”

“I used to go to school there,” Sam hums, complacently, “Never anything happening when I was there.”

“That would be when?” Chris looks him up and down, trying to guess his age. “2000?”

“2001 to 2005,” Sam replies.

The hunter nods as if he expected this, “The Hale family was still around back then. They used to keep things under control for the county, if not the whole state. At least until the fire in 2005. Then suddenly the place goes back to being a supernatural beacon.”

Dean shrugs, “Might explain why the demon could suddenly get in,” he tells Sam, as if this all makes some sort of sick sense, “Nothing around to guard it.”

“Brady,” is all Sam says in reply and Dean sighs and takes another sip of his beer. Sam just tries not to think about his friend who turned out to be a demon in disguise. The same demon who had introduced him to Jess. The same demon who had later killed Jessica on Azazel’s orders… He sighs and follows his brother’s example, taking a long sip of his drink.

Sam doesn’t ask Chris outright about the two kinds of werewolves, but he gets the hunter talking about omegas and then manages to squeeze out extra information on the pack dynamics. It’s enlightening, but pretty soon he can see his brother drifting and they exchange numbers and then make their excuses to leave.

They get outside and Sam begins to look for the nearest motel, standing by the car with a map while Dean climbs in and starts up the car. He stops suddenly and leans over the middle of the car, glancing around, nose flaring as he frowns suspiciously.

“Dean?” Sam asks, “What? What is it?”

“You put it in the glove box right?” Dean is looking at the glove compartment. It’s open. They hadn’t left it like that. Dean closes it and then slams said compartment open again. He pulls out their fake IDs that go flying everywhere. “You put it right here!”

“Put what--“ Sam’s blood goes cold. “No. Oh no.” He steps around and opens the trunk sifting through everything, but all their weapons look normal. Nothing is missing from there. Which means--

“Dammit!” Dean punches the air. Sam thinks he would have punched at the car if he didn’t like it so much. “It was that werewolf,” Dean hisses, “I know it!”

Sam staggers back, running his hands through his hair. “It’s gone.” He says. “The Grail. It’s gone.”

He hopes Hale got burned by the damn grail and all the wolfsbane on it.


	17. Alpha

There's that awkward moment when the last hound has vanished. Fleeing would be the wrong word for it, because they've been called off, and like obedient mutts they've run away with their master. The pack staggers to their feet, and stand there for a moment, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Scott's shoulder is bloody, but whatever damage he had has already healed. Isaac has quite a nasty looking coating of blood from a head wound, and Scott begins to categorise their other various injuries. Most of the wolves have healed, but Allison has a set of claw marks across her collar bone.

Twenty metres or so behind Scott there are two girls, the taller blonde girl with short hair leaning over the younger, pawing blood away from her lower arm. For a moment Scott thinks it's his ghost, just haunting him as usual, but then he sees the look Ethan shoots them, and the way the beta's eyes flash blue threateningly.

He launches himself into moving, as the older girl looks up startled and worried. The Pack are far more used to dealing with issues like this than the girls could ever be. Almost a year of non-stop problems from psychotic alphas to homicidal lizards, evil English teachers and megalomaniac blind men has given them instincts that it would take years to learn otherwise.

The three behind him break into a run to follow him as he skids up besides Ethan. Scott snarls and his eyes flash red. He can smell the scent of the two wolves, and his hands come down, claws sliding out almost like a cat as he holds them by his side, ready.

The older girl shoves herself in front of the younger one, stumbling backwards. She is shaking her head like a wet dog, silent and seemingly unnerved by them, as the huntress and other two betas arrive to back the alpha up.

"Who are you?" Scott asks, growling low in his throat.

"Like we're going to tell you that!" the girl hisses defiantly, and crimson bleeds into her own eyes. Her accent is decidedly British, without even an American tang to it. Scott's nostrils flare, and he almost wishes Derek was here, because he honestly has no idea how to deal with this.

"You set hell hounds on us!" Allison speaks up angrily. The blonde girl blinks in alarm as the huntress spins one of her ring daggers in an action Scott knows is purely for intimidation and showing off. "Where did your pack member run off to, huh?" she challenges.

"Pack member?" The girl demands. "Who?"

At the same time the younger girl shoves herself sideways away from her alpha. She asks, looking about with wide eyes, "Jethro? Have you seen Jethro?"

"The beta?" Scott asks, shortly, frowning and feeling like he's missed a plot point here somewhere.

The girl shakes her head, and it suddenly occurs to him that she and the younger girl were fighting with them, against the hounds. They didn’t stand around to watch the slaughter. Instead they helped out, although obviously to great reluctance on the older girl’s part, but that makes sense if these three are her family, her pack.

"Are you telling me that the man with yellow eyes is _not_ in your pack?" Allison is also frowning, and there is disbelief in her tone.

The short-haired blonde curls her lip, disgusted, and she looks ready to spit back some angry retort when Scott hears the pounding of heartbeats approaching. Stiles wrecks the moment, choosing the most inconvenient time to show up, but that’s just Stiles for you.

His best friend skids around the corner, a dark-haired boy draped over one shoulder and limping along. Lydia follows behind, glancing around periodically and she's holding what looks like a Molotov cocktail. Stiles stumbles forwards, and the dark boy's weight rests almost entirely on his friend as he still manages to wave a free hand at them. "Woah! Guys no fighting! Don't! Don't shoot them! They're friends!"

Scott wonders what Stiles thought he would use to shoot them, but then remembers that Allison still has her crossbow. He turns to the girls just in time to watch the older one's face twist in a fed up expression that looks like she uses it regularly. It's sort a scowl, but it's exasperation as well as she eyes the dark haired kid.

Scott relaxes only slightly.

"So he's not part of your pack?" Scott asks her. "That guy with the hell hounds?"

"No!" she sounds disgusted, and casting him a wary glance drags the younger girl after her towards where Stiles and Lydia limp up. Scott can see a bloody gash across his friend's forehead, while Lydia looks unharmed, but freaked out. "He's not even a werewolf," the female alpha shoots at him. "He's a filthy…" she falls silent, biting her tongue.

"He's a what?" Scott demands, because this girl can't lie. He realises that he shouldn't be able to demand this of another alpha, but Beacon Hills is _his_ home. He'll demand all he wants. "A what?" he says again.

"A demon!" the boy draped over Stiles answers Scott's query. The kid looks exhausted, dark bags under his eyes. "He's a demon."

"Jethro!" the girl hisses indignantly, and he just flashes her a toothy grin.

"So yeah," Stiles lets out a weak laugh, "Basically we're screwed."

***

Stiles thinks they should be more freaked out about this. But none of them even flinch. Okay, he definitely saw that scarf-wearing idiot do a small double-take, but apart from Allison's boyfriend, the Pack generally accept it as the truth, because their lives are just that _weird_.

Deaton is worried. He can see it as the vet paces around the corner of his ruined surgery, on the phone to his sister wherever she is currently hanging around. Personally Stiles doesn't care, she's a sucky guidance councillor. A terrible French teacher too now he thinks about it, but then again Stiles never took French, he did Spanish because Scott did Spanish. Not that his Spanish was any better than his French but that wasn't the point.

They haven’t made it far from the clinic, but they probably should because soon the police are going to be showing up with questions. Having them all hanging around is going to look suspicious, especially with the three British strangers around.

The older girl is called Nate Claine. She's a protective, emotional, cheeky seventeen-year old with secrets that the Pack haven't even begun to dent. She's an alpha, but not a very experienced one, and the only explanation for that is that her Pack is dead.

She's British too. The three of them all are.

The other girl is her younger sister called Lexi. She's similar to her sister, but she's far more trusting, wide-eyed and innocent. It's almost cute, but most of the time it's annoying. Stiles had never wanted a younger sister and he doesn't want one now.

"We're leaving," the alpha girl - Nate - tells them, standing in the vet's surgery. The place doesn't look too bad now the monstrous dogs are gone, but Deaton's still going to have to get a new door and wooden barricade. Where does he even get a wooden barricade made out of mountain ash anyway? Do druids have a special shop for it?

On that note Stiles should get himself a wooden mountain ash baseball bat. He could even coat it in a varnish with wolfsbane in it. It’d be lethal.

His musing are cut off when the dark-haired boy stands up to his alpha. "No, we're not." Jethro snaps at her, and the guy seems okay. He reminds Stiles of himself, the plain old human in the pack. He's comic relief, ready with a smile and what he had admitted to Stiles was a knife with glued on mountain ash.

The alpha rounds on him, and she looks about ready to throttle him but her sister nudges her, and she suddenly becomes aware of everyone's eyes on her. She looks daunted, and she's definitely nervous, not just of Allison who seems to be going out of her way to avoid the two wolves, but of the blue-eyed twins.

Isaac clears his throat interrupting like the jerk he is. Stiles resists the urge to roll his eyes. "Do...uh… do we have a good story ready for when the police show up?" he asks.

Expectant gazes land on Stiles. "My dad's the Sheriff," he explains when Jethro looks curious. He plasters a fake grin on his face and considers turning to Scott and reminding him about his FBI dad, but considers that's a low blow. "Why do always look at me?" he says instead, grin dropping. He wonders how the story of some rabid dog pack attacking them would go down. It’s nothing new - animals act weird around Beacon Hills all the time. "I told you we need a decent base!"

"We could use Derek's loft," Isaac suggests, and he may be a stupid-scarf wearing idiot but at least he has common sense. Some of the time at least. For example dating Allison Argent when not only could she kill you, but her father could too - that wasn’t smart - that was just suicidal.

"Thank you." Stiles gestures at him, because finally someone has a decent suggestion.

"Loft?" Jethro coughs, looking a bit red in the face.

"Derek's out of town… I don't know when he'll be back," Scott looks worried. Stiles personally doesn't care what Derek thinks about them using his loft. It’s not like he or Cora need it. If they want a base when they come back then they can rebuild the Hale House that still stands as a burned out wreck on the north of the preserve.

He's more worried about Peter. "Is the maniac zombie wolf gone?" he asks instead. The younger sister squeaks at the term zombie. He ignores her.

"Peter's gone." Lydia answers, and her voice sounds smug, as if she had something to do with that.

"Great." Stiles punches the air in triumph, because something seems to be going right for once. He can tick of 'Pack base' on his list of things that need to happen, and now they just need a name...

"Uh… you mean the loft downtown?" Jethro speaks up. "Some sort of converted warehouse with big brick arches and--"

Allison glances at him, "You know it?" she asks.

Nate has the decency to look a bit sheepish. "We… _might_ be staying there--" She doesn't quail from Scott's gaze and Stiles admires her for that much at least. "We ended up here without any passports or money." she adds, "And that place might have a crappy interior decorator design it, but at least it's warm and dry."

Most of the Pack stifles laughter at the thought of Derek putting thought into interior decorating.

Stiles thinks he might be able to like this girl and her small pack.

His own pack used to be like that, not too long ago.

***

“Nice place,” Jethro tries to break the awkward silence that sits in the air as they stand at various points around the loft. It hasn’t lifted in the ten minutes since they got here, all car-pooling in the various vehicles to get out of there before the police turned up. “So it’s uh - yours?” he looks around at the local pack. He’s just thankful the other two blue-eyed twins has vanished, because both of them make him uncomfortable. There is something dark and edgy about them.

Not to say that the rest of the pack are perfectly normal. Something that tastes like fresh air and stale rotting corpses combined clings to three of them, but in the confined space and Jethro’s state of disarray he can’t pin point which three. The rest seem quiet, watching the trio with wary eyes.

Scott looks up, dark eyes from where he currently checking on the health of the humans in his pack. He shakes his head mutely.

“Can we stay here?” Nate challenges, glaring at Scott. She would probably flash her eyes at him if she didn’t think that wasn’t too much of a threat. “We won’t be here long, but we just need to rest and recuperate and--“

“We’re staying,” Jethro speaks over her. She glares at him, but he’s not a wolf and she’s not his alpha, “If you don’t mind that is.”

“Depends,” Scott says sullenly, and over where he is prodding at a pile of books Jethro hears Stiles rolls his eyes skywards with a ‘oh my god dude are you channelling Derek Hale?’.

“On what?” Nate crosses her arms.

“On what are you doing here?” Scott stands, shoulders square as he faces her.

“Why do you want to know?”

“I’m the alpha. I deserve to know. This is my territory.”

“I thought it was Hale territory. Until they died in that fire.”

“Shut up, Jethro,” Nate hisses, unappreciative of his mad research skills.

Scott takes a breath to calm himself, “We don’t mind that you’re here,” he says, “What we mind is that you’re here now just when a demon shows up and decides to set hell hounds on our tails.” He leaves it hanging, the ball in Nate’s court to defend how she will.

She looks uncomfortable. She’s an alpha, and should probably have a handle on this, but she doesn’t know how. She has no experience with this.

“You’re rather a small pack, aren’t you?” Lydia says calmly. She’s observant, Jethro thinks vaguely, and that makes her dangerous.

Lexi whimpers. Nate slams her hand down on the back of the sofa, “I don’t want to talk about it,” she says, voice tense.

It sort of tells them everything though really.

“British?” the strawberry-blonde can be vicious when she chooses. “You don’t even sound American. How long have you been here?”

This time Jethro looks at Nate for confirmation before he carefully replies with “A month.”

Lydia nods as if she’s pleased at something. “You said you didn’t have any passports or money--“ (and Jethro curses, trying to remember which one of them let _that_ slip because if it was him he’s dead, he’s dead and buried because Nate is going to kill him) “You arrived un-expectantly.”

“Yeah,” Jethro scoffs, “Demon-expectedly.” If looks could kill he would be dead from the force of Nate’s glare.

 “A demon?” Allison says from where Stiles and Lydia are helping her stitch up the wound across her collar bone. “A _demon_?” she repeats, as if she is still in disbelief from the fact.

“You believe in werewolves but you don’t believe in demons?” Nate challenges. “Yes, a demon. A demon teleported us here.”

“You _what_?”

“Teleported?” Jethro repeats. He can’t hear what everyone’s thinking to base his answer on. Two of them are wolves, two of them have thick walls that muffle the sound and the last one of them is something. But he catches just the faint roll of worried thoughts; panic and ‘are they dangerous?’ like a faint background hum of music. “We didn’t want to,” he blurts out, “She kind of took us along with her.”

The alpha - Scott - groans, running his hands through his hair, “And then you what? Hung around here until you decided to help us out?”

Nate crosses her arms, sticking her chin out, “No need to thank us,” she says snidely, and Lexi attempts to look anywhere but at the openly curious gazes of the local pack. Jethro feels grateful that they’re protecting him, but he catches the tail end of Lydia and Stiles’ curiosity about the teleporting.

“We just need somewhere safe to stay and rest while Jethro recovers,” Lexi says, and she’s tired, probably wants to curl up on the sofa where the beta - Isaac - currently lounges.

“Recovers from what?” Allison looks up, needle in hand mid-stitch.

“You can stay,” Scott speaks over the hunter. Nate’s shoulders actually slump slightly in relief that Scott ignored Allison’s question. “For now you can stay,” he repeats, meeting Nate’s gaze, “You guys need money though, and some papers.”

“My dad can sort that,” Stiles says brightly. “That is, if he doesn’t kill me for what happened at the vets--“ he trails off, looking worried for his continued health.

“Great.” Nate looks reluctant, “Uh - if you guys don’t need this place then we can just - crash here?”

The pack glances to Stiles, “Derek’s still in South America,” he says, “With Cora. This place is free for wild parties, fun all around and--“ his mischievous smile drops at their faces, “They can stay here,” he sighs, “I’ll uh - I’ll go phone my dad--“

Scott looks serious as he turns around, offering a weak smile to Nate, “I figure someone should welcome you here then.” He spreads his arms out, “So welcome to Beacon Hills.”

It sounds less like a welcome and more like a warning to Jethro’s ears.

***

They're meant to be leaving.

Nate wants to shout that at the top of her lungs, but it's useless.

Jethro and Lexi are both deaf and stubborn.

She doesn't think they're going anywhere.

Nate is currently hunched over, standing behind the other alpha as he explains something to his mum, who turns out to be the nurse who had helped them at the hospital. The Sheriff is also there, and apparently the lanky good-looking kid - the one with the odd name - is his son. The pair had turned up, both parents having a panic over why their child wasn’t at school and then a second panic over the supernatural shenanigans going on.

Now they both stand in the loft, arms crossed and looking concerned, nodding occasionally as their sons explain events to them. The rest of the pack has dispersed, and Nate doesn’t know where they’ve gone.

Lexi is standing brightly besides her, and for people who were being threatened by hell hounds only that morning the alpha and the human beta are looking weirdly relaxed.

"Let me get this straight." The Sheriff frowns, "They're here illegally, because they accidently got teleported by a demon?"

Nate chews on her lip and just glares at where Jethro is sleeping on the couch. He seems to have this amazing ability to sleep almost anywhere and any-when. She's so busy glaring at him that she misses the tail end of the conversation, but the Sheriff is nodding and Melissa is staring at her in a concerned, motherly fashion.

Nate doesn't need that. Her mother died to protect her and she doesn't want a replacement. She holds her head high and looks the two adults in the eyes. She's an alpha. It's about time she starts acting like one.

"We think it's safer that they stay here for now," Scott tells them, partially directing the last part to her, as if he’s actually concerned for her safety.

She just nods tightly. Nobody wants to pull out the money for plane tickets and fake passports, just to get them home.

"I can enrol you into school," the Sheriff tells her and Lexi, "But your sister will be in the Middle School here, not the High School."

Lexi shifts behind her and Nate knows that her sister is not going to be happy with that. "She can't join the high school?" she asks, "She's in Year Nine." Lexi might look eleven years old but she’s almost fourteen and probably far cleverer than kids here.

They look blank. Americans, Nate mentally sighs, "She's thirteen, and she'll be turning fourteen when March rolls around. I turned seventeen last October."

"You’re in our year - Juniors!" Stiles grins at her. She doesn't grin back, and just nods again. “I’m sure we could get your sister in freshman year - right dad?”

The alpha - Scott - is looking at her with wide brown eyes that are far too cute to be legal. "We'll sort this out," he says, and the way he says it sounds almost like a promise.

Nate doesn't say that 'sorted out' would put them back home, with her family alive again. She doesn't say that they can't simply 'sort out' demons and expect everything to go back to normal.

Normal was gone.

It wasn't coming back.

***

"Who's this?" Coach Finstock doesn't look impressed the next Monday when Nate and Jethro stand awkwardly in front of him.

"They're the new kids Coach," Scott leans around his desk.

The Coach's lips twitch. He's irritated, but befuzzled, Scott realises. It's not often they have new kids. "Names?" he barks at them.

"Jethro Ascott." the boy introduces. He's leaning heavily into one crutch. "This is Natalie Claine."

The teacher sniffs as if there is something disgusting in the room. "Brits." he scoffs. "Bet neither of you have heard of Lacrosse in your life."

"Lacrosse?" both of them look blank. In the background Stiles' head hits the desk with an audible thump and only Lydia glances around, concerned for his welfare.

The teacher grins, and if Scott didn't know any better and hadn't met Peter Hale, he'd have said it was almost wolfish. "It's only the best sport to exist," he says, leaning forwards as if about to start some sort of confidential meeting.

Scott follows Stiles' lead and drops his head to the table with a thump.

***

The stitches across her collar bone itch uncomfortably but Allison ignores them. They don't hurt, and all the werewolves have already healed up. Lydia was unscathed, and Stiles pretended to everyone he had fallen down the stairs. Nobody had really been surprised at that.

It was strange how quickly life went back to normal. And how quickly the threat of the rival pack became almost non-existent.

There were only three of them. And alpha, a beta and a human. They weren't exactly much of a threat.

And so Scott did a brilliant impression of a mother duck and got the adults to sort it out so that they could hang around a little bit longer. Allison's still confused as to how everything managed to get sorted out, but somehow it got sorted.

Stiles also got his base. Allison was relieved because the hyperactive teenager had been going on about it for long enough. And admittedly they had three other teenagers crashing at their base, and the adult who actually owned said base was MIA with his long lost younger sister who according to the hyperactive one were somewhere in South America.

She should really just give up questioning Stiles by now.

***

"Your teachers are weird," Jethro tells Stiles, when the other boy follows them back to the loft with the rest of his pack. "And the one is obsessed with Lacrosse."

"More so than usual." Stiles sighs. "But the teachers at our school--" Stiles scoffs, as he leans over the books on the table that Jethro has been looking through. "They have about the same life expectancy as the Defence Against the Dark Arts position at Hogwarts!" Stiles points emphatically with each word he says. "We've gone through a history teacher, an English teacher, a chemistry teacher… oh yeah and the principle retired--" he seems far too gleeful about the last one.

"I'd be careful touching those," Jethro warns as Stiles suddenly grabs for one. He waits for the sharp hiss of pain that had happened when Nate had tried the same thing.

"Why?" The red-head - Lydia - asks from behind him. She doesn't seem to like the place that much, and keeps glancing around as if she expects someone to crawl out of the very walls. There’s something here that disturbs her, thoughts of ‘Hale-Peter-dead’ swimming in what Jethro can read from her.

"They're warded," Jethro tells the other pack, as they circle the table. Stiles however is handling it as if there is nothing wrong with it. "Or… not…" he frowns at the other boy.

Stiles just exchanges a glance with Scott and Lydia. He shrugs, "Must be left over Nemeton stuff." he says, and Jethro thinks if he is anymore cryptic he'd be competing with the dragon out of Merlin.

He says as much.

"Dude." Stiles rolls his head onto one shoulder to see where Jethro has propped himself up on one sofa. "If I was any more cryptic I'd be a fu--reaking emissary."

Scott pokes at a book and nothing happens to him. "We're pack." he realises suddenly. "They're not warded because we're pack."

"Pack?" Lydia frowns, "Whose pack-- oh no--" she holds up her hands.

"No wait--" Stiles peers really closely at one, and then ducks down until he can see the handwriting from an angle.

"There's no name in them," Jethro says. "Just really bad handwriting and bits and pieces of lore and mythology."

"Ever picture Peter with bad handwriting?" Stiles' lips curl into a smirk as he stands, turning to Lydia. "Because otherwise I'd say these journals were written by Derek."

Seconds later his face falls, just as Jethro asks: "Who?"

The alpha - Scott - raises his eyebrows in interest, hands splayed out on the table as he bends over one. Jethro suddenly feels a bit outnumbered and wishes Nate was back already from raiding the grocery stores with Lexi and the huntress - Allison. "Derek writes _journals_? Wait--hang on--Derek _writes_?"

Stiles ignores him. "Oh my god -- " he spins around to gape open mouthed at where Jethro is sprawled. "Dude - you've been reading the Derek Hale Diaries!" he shakes his head in disbelief, eyes wide.

"The what--?" Stiles is looking at him as if he has a highly infectious disease. "Who--?" Jethro frowns.

Stiles just presses his lips together. "I am so, _so_ sorry my friend," he says sincerely, head shaking as if he is announcing that someone has terminal cancer. "You must be scarred beyond belief." Even Scott looks terrified at the thought and Jethro wonders who the hell 'Derek Hale' is.

He decides not to ask. He doesn’t even try to pick out any distinguishable thought because there is such a whirlwind and the majority of them involve a blue-eyed man in their bedrooms.

It might be safer to just avoid that topic.

A phone rings, and for a moment there's a pause to try and identify the ringtone, and then followed by a mad scrambling to answer it. Jethro makes one attempt but then gives up when he realises that neither he nor Nate have a phone with a viable network connection. Lydia pulls out a phone and answers it, pressing her palm over one ear and half-turning away so that Jethro can no longer see her mouth moving. "Allison?" she asks.

She hangs up after only a few seconds, turning and the expression on her face is drawn.

"What's wrong? Are Nate and Lexi…?" Jethro tries to lever himself upright.

"Allison?" Scott asks, and then adds almost as an afterthought, "Isaac?"

Lydia shakes her head, "There's been another death."


	18. When the World Swallowed Me Whole

"That's what--?" Stiles says, pacing up and down in their new base. "The third death?" At least someone is happy about hanging out at Derek's loft converted apartment, but even Scott has to admit that it's better than an abandoned train station.

Allison looks tense, and the two werewolf girls look uneasy, and Scott’s surprised the female alpha hasn’t already restated her intentions to leave. She’d seemed so keen about it, but for now at least she’s given in to the demands of her friends and is staying.

“We drove past your dad,” Allison tells Stiles, “And his new deputy - the good looking guy--“

“Parrish,” Stiles hums.

Scott doesn’t know whether to be disturbed that Allison is admiring this guy (Isaac has a similar expression on his face) or worried that Stiles appears to know which one she means based on just the description of ‘the good looking guy’.

“They were out near the woods - had cordoned a section off. They said it was an accident.” The three girls had gotten back barely five minutes ago, but somehow Stiles already had found pictures.

(And by ‘found’ Scott means they have most likely been stolen from his dad's files which is impressive given the time restraint upon receiving the information. Scott doesn’t know how Stiles managed it, but knows not to be surprised anymore).

His best friend has stuck them up on a wall in the loft. Scott wishes he'd find somewhere else to do it, because looking at the wall it makes them look like some sort of weird criminal group of serial killers. A cult of supernaturally obsessed serial killers.

Stiles has even strung pieces of string to the pictures and linked them to a map of Beacon Hills. According to Lydia he does this in his room as well, and Scott tries in vain to think of the last time he dropped by his friend's house.

"They're not connected," Allison shakes her head, leaning against a wall and observing the wall from one angle, "All the causes have been natural. Starvation. Drowning. And now a rock slide. Nothing supernatural. I think you dad is right on this one Stiles."

Scott agrees but at the same time he doesn't. "But for this to happen now? With this -- demon about? We can't just overlook it."

"I haven't got anything," Lydia shakes her head.

"Why would you get something?" the young girl Lexi asks from where she is sitting cross-legged on the floor.

"She's a banshee. She senses death. Hears stuff," Stiles murmurs distractedly.

The female alpha shakes her head decisively from where she perches on the arm of a sofa. "Lexi doesn't need to hear this. In fact none of us really need to hear your theories. Why are you looking into dead bodies anyway?"

Scott crosses his arms, staring at the strings. There are two red ones: one to the house where the man had died and another to the place in the woods where the man - Thomas Dashner - had been crushed by a rockslide while hiking in the south of the reserve. There is a blue string to the high street where they had encountered the woman and then another red one to the river where the girl had drowned.

Thankfully, neither Stiles, Scott nor Allison had seen any ghosts belonging to the recently deceased people. Scott actually hadn't seen any ghosts for a day or so, and he was beginning to wonder if everything was over and they were overreacting. "Let Lexi stay," he waves one hand at the other alpha. "You guys are a part of this too because if any of this…" he waves a hand at the wall, "If any of this is connected then it's going to be the same reason this demon is in town."

"I looked in my family’s bestiary," Allison pushes off from the wall and moves towards her bag. She pulls out a printed out copy of Argent Family Bestiary.

“Your family’s _bestiality.._?” Nate looks scandalised.

There are groans from everyone in the group.

“No, I mean _bestiary_ ,” Allison says. “Here,” she holds out a bunch of papers, clipped together with a bull clip.

Jethro cranes his head from where he is sitting on the sofa to look at the writing. "That's Latin," he complains, "You can read Latin?"

The huntress shakes her head, "No. But Lydia can," she holds out the sheaf of paper, offering it to Lydia. "Can you translate?"

Lydia takes it with a pout, head tilting to one side. "I don't think we're going to find anything." she says, tone condescending. "This stuff happens."

"You mean like Peter just happened?" Stiles sounds frustrated, "And the alpha pack, just happened?" he stops, having made his point. "Nothing ever 'just happens'. Not in this town."

“That’s because we have a super-powered tree beacon,” Isaac mutters, but is ignored - as usual. The Nemeton is as good as dead now - it’s not really good for anything.

Scott thinks back to the night he was bitten, to Stiles bouncing along like an enthusiastic fox, and 'there's a body in the wood? A dead body? No a body of water…' and it's not even been a full year yet.

Lydia rifles through the print-out and sighs, "Look all I can do is translate this for you. But for all we know that demon might have moved on." Scott hears her heart stutter and there is hope mingling with her words.

"Maybe," Jethro leans over, and there's something about him that makes Scott uneasy. He likes the guy, he does, but the trio must think he’s an idiot if he can’t smell there is something different about him. He smells like Lydia, mostly human but with just that little bit of ‘other’ than tells Scott he’s not.

Lydia and Stiles were already on that thought, finally looking through those books after moving them from the floor of Stiles jeep. It’s about time - Scott had been debating about the reliability of his researchers. They don’t have much to go on other than what Melissa had said about him being in a coma from energy depletion. Lydia thinks the whole teleporting thing is fishy too, and Scott agrees, if only because the heart beats had been so fast and flurried that he knows they were lying.

They’ve dealt with the alpha pack. In comparison these three pose no harm, and they’re almost easy to figure out, but at the same time Scott likes them as people. He doesn’t want to go about this as if it’s some sort of problem. He wants to know them as people first, instead of investigating them behind their backs.

“ _Maybe?_ ” Nate asks in reply to Jethro’s shrug, “What’s that meant to mean?” as if she doesn’t like his cryptic tones any more than Scott does.

“Maybe,” the dark haired teen shrugs, “Maybe there's something far worse than hell hounds coming to this town."

***

"Ascott, dude, seriously?"

Stiles is never going to get used to the fact that one moment they can be stalking around investigating dead bodies and the next moment they have to be back at school, doing homework and other such inconsequential things.

It’s been three weeks since the hellhounds. Two weeks since the police found the third body. There have been none since then, and they barely even dare to hope that it might be over already.

Nate, Lexi and Jethro have been here for almost two months. They’re a week into March and the three are already beginning to fit into the pack life as if they have always lived in Beacon Hills. If it isn’t for the reminder that they’re not from around here in Nate’s red eyes and their British accents he’d barely even remember that they were different.

At this precise moment he is trying to forget about all of that. He’s trying to ignore how he's probably failing several subjects due to the latest drama in their lives, and so Stiles resorts to being his usual annoying self.

“Ascott” he repeats again. “Assssscotttt. Scott. Ass Scott.”

Jethro glares at him, “What's wrong with it?"

"Isn't that the name of some big horse race in England?"

"It's a town you idiot," Jethro hisses, looking about, obviously embarrassed. He turns to the side and is then faced with the challenge that is the American school locker. Even after three weeks he seems unable to overcome it. Stiles leans against the lockers and watched him puzzle out the combination with curiosity.

"And Jethro…" he draws the name out, "Isn't there a guy on Doctor Who called Jethro? The one in the spaceship."

"In the middle of nowhere," the Brit sighs, and with frustration slams the lock down, the metal clattering as it crashes into the locker. "You watch Doctor Who?"

Stiles finally relents and helps him with his combination, "Yeah, when I'm not running after alpha werewolves with a baseball bat, finding dead bodies or being possessed by psychotic foxes."

Jethro just looks confused. "You've been possessed by a psychotic fox?"

The brunette waves a hand dismissively, "No, I haven't, but that's not the point. Point is there are usual more important things going on."

"They should make a TV show of your lives," Jethro stuffs several heavy text books in the locker. "Scott McCall the teenage werewolf and his best friend Stiles Stilinski. Which is a weird name by the way."

"Polish. I think," Stiles shrugs.

"No, I mean ‘Stiles’. You know in England a stile is something you use to climb over a fence?"

Stiles shrugs, unbothered by this, "It's better than my real name," and he dangles that piece of information there before pushing off from the lockers to go and smile prettily at Lydia, where she is insulting Aidan for what must be the fifth time already that week.

And it was only Tuesday.

"Wait!" he hears Jethro splutter, "You have _another_ name?! What's your name! Oh my god - _dude_ \- you can't leave me hanging like that! Sti- _iles_!"

Stiles just grins and ignores him.

***

" _This_ is top level maths?" Nate frowns at the board and the quadratic equation across it. "Seriously?"

Allison huffs in front of her, "Look," she says, turning, "I don't know what they teach you in England, but maybe we just might not be at the same level as you, okay?" she glares at Nate.

"Do you need help?" Nate offers icily, slightly pissed at the hunter's attitude.

To the opposite of her expectations, Allison just looks relieved, "Thank god," she says, before spinning fully and dumping her work down on Nate's desk. "Please."

Nate grins cautiously and she receives a stunning smile in return. "You're not bad," Nate offers her, as she begins scrawling out numbers. She likes numbers, they're familiar and logical and always follow the rules. "For a hunter that is," she adds in slyly.

"Thanks," Allison's smile is disarmingly pleasant. "You're not bad either. For a wolf," and Nate makes a mental note to never piss this girl off. She thinks that they may be sort-of friends, but she's still downright terrified of Allison Argent (and she knows what that name fucking means).

***

"My dad's back," Allison announces, as she enters the loft. She wonders vaguely what Derek would think of them using it as a base, and then decides she doesn't care. "He says salt wards off ghosts."

"I knew it!" is the triumphant cry from where Stiles is doing his homework, followed by a muffled thump as he falls off the arm of the sofa he is balanced on.

The loft has kind of turned into the place for the pack to hang out. Nate is there and she offers Allison an awkward smile that Allison returns before strolling over to sit by her at the table. Thankfully Allison sees no numbers, only history, and though she's never going to match Lydia at history, she can offer a pointer or two.

Jethro has the TV on, and is skimming through BBC News channels. Scott and Isaac are running patrol somewhere along the preserve and the younger sister is tagging along. Allison has warned her dad about the new werewolves around, and even mentioned bits of what Stiles and Lydia have passed on about Jethro, when the trio were elsewhere.

Her dad said he'd look into it, shorter and sharper than usual, and she had attributed it to a lot of long driving and very little to show for it.

Now she examines the dark haired teen, aware of what she had mentioned to her dad.

Jethro had been able to see the hell hounds. Perfectly, with none of the blurring that she and Stiles had seen, nor the shadow dogs that the werewolves saw. Instead he saw the full bloody detail just like Lydia.

Said red-head was nowhere to be seen. She was probably having her nails done again.

Jethro sits slumped in the sofa, and the TV illuminates his face (Allison wonders where the hell he had found the TV, let alone managed to drag it out in his weakened state) (wait… did _Derek_ _Hale_ watch TV? Did _Peter_ _?_ ). The news doesn't seem particularly interesting, taking a lot of time to inform people how the weather conditions had been affecting driving and how the environment agency didn't build very good flood defences. She tunes it out to try and wonder what Jethro could be.

He could teleport… or maybe not teleport, since apparently he had followed a demon here. In that case he merely tagged along: rode the energy of the demon.

The two wolves aren't being particularly open about how they got here: which is fine, because it's not exactly like the pack is a chatty bunch either.

She helpfully corrects a date for Nate, before eventually sighing and pulling out some of her own work to do.

On the sofa there is a gasp and she looks up. Jethro's position has changed, and he now leans forwards staring eagerly at the screen. "Turn up the volume," he paws at Stiles, almost sending the other teen falling off the sofa again. "The volume…" he snaps, and Stiles hurries to find the right button on the remote.

Allison catches the news drifting in and Nate slips out of her seat to pace around to stand there, watching the broadcast. It’s the British news, and she feels like she’s intruding as she sees the headline of ‘killings’. It’s obviously where these three came from, and it’s already telling her and Stiles more than the trio have revealed themselves over the past few weeks.

_"--serial killing-- with four residents still missing and presumed dead--"_

The words float over to her and without realising she is there, standing and watching besides Nate. The alpha girl glances at her but doesn’t complain, pale, white almost as she watches the TV.

"Everyone's dead if you think about it."

She prides herself for not jumping when her mom makes an appearance right behind her. She just crosses her arms, closes her eyes and then opens them again, studiously ignoring the ghost.

"That's kind of rude you know," Victoria Argent paces around, examining the base with a critical eye.

_"--thirty mutilated bodies were found in the woods--"_

"Pah. Werewolves. Who cares about them? _You_ certainly don't. They took Kate away from you. _Me_. Gerard. Your whole family. Who is going to be next? Your name is there with black ink--"

_"--here we have the father of one of the missing teenagers with us--"_

"--you three thought you knew what you were doing, but you don't have a clue--

_"--I just hope he's alive. Jethro if you're out there--"_

"--and it's going to get you killed--"

_“--come home safely--“_

“--it’s going to get you all killed--“

"Turn it _off_ ," Allison snaps. "Turn it off."

The screen dies and goes black. Jethro and Nate are staring at each other in mute horror and sadness while Allison just clenches her eyes closed and tries not to listen.

***

Scott’s riding his bike when it happens.

He’s moving along the road down from the woods, the engine roaring loudly as he just lets the momentum carry him along the road. He slows down as he approaches the town, looking around. He’s just returned from a run along the preserve with Isaac, to check that no more hapless people had decided to add to the body count.

At the moment though it just seemed like they were accidents. No claws or fangs anywhere to show for it.

Scott’s not sure whether that’s going to be the case, or if that’s just what he hopes is true.

Either way he knows his pack can pull through this.

They have before, after all.

He doesn’t notice the noises at first. They’re dim compared to the vibrations of the bike beneath him, but then one of them cries out.

It’s a cry of pain but it’s also an exclamation. Either way Scott slows down and looks around for the person in question.

The engine dies just that little bit and then he can hear them. It’s the jarring sound of too many voices talking over one another until he can’t hear what anyone is saying.

His vision sharpens on a speck of dust floating in sunlight. The noise of the bike dims and then returns to normal. The dust slips out of focus and suddenly he can see the bricks on a house three streets away.

In his ears someone screams.

Scott brakes so sharply he can feel the bike protesting. The wheels lock up and skid and suddenly he's tilting over and around and under and--

                                                                  ~~“…help me…”~~

“you going to run? Run away and hide and cry and beg but I’m never gonna’ leave you. Not like they did. I’m here for you, me and you, you and I, oh together we’ll make it through and you scream so prettily…”

                       “We are the shadows. We are legion. We are--”

\--the weight of the bike falls onto him and then rolls off again due to momentum. Scott lands heavily on the ground and keeps rolling. He's a werewolf, and even broken bones will heal eventually.

He rolls over and comes to a stop on his elbows, trying to prop himself up. He just crashed his bike. He never crashes. He's got wolf senses and he doesn't crash. He just doesn't.

But there are voices in his head and this is it, this is the moment his sanity finally cracks.

                                           "We are--"

                          “--blood--burning…”

The gravel makes small indents in his palms as he staggers up. There is blood coming from somewhere, but he barely notices it. He's dizzy and it feels like he's inhaled something that makes the whole world spin around him. He's lightheaded and feels as delicate as a feather. Every movement is far too fast and he tries to slow his breathing as he spins around and around and around...

                                         “We’ve got forever you and I--even with wings you cannot fly--now we’re falling forever, from the sky--”

                                        “There’s something in the shadows.”

                     “--too late, always too late--“

Scott stumbles his way into the edge of the woods, looking for an escape. He leaves the bike on the side of the road and forces himself off the path, out of sight. He needs to shift, wants to, can feel it in his bones but at the same time he can't.

Because if he shifts he doesn't know if he's going to be able to shift back.

~~“…gotta look…big plan…wider picture…”~~

                                           “We are _infinite_.”

                        “We are-“

Leaves crunch underfoot as he stumbles up the hill and away from the smell of burnt tyres and scratched metallic paint, up and away; staggering about like a drunkard.

He pauses to catch his breath, hands resting against a tree. His hands end in claws, talons curling out and he shoves himself off, curling his fingers around and into his own palms, feeling them pierce the skin. He cries out at the sharp fresh pain but it does nothing to take away the feeling of weighing nothing, of drifting.

The feeling of death.

                           “Don’t cry don’t cry. Don’t cry for me, don’t cry don’t cry and oh, sweetie, why so sad? It’s just me? Are you scared, ~~after all the fun we’ve had together.~~ Don’t leave, don’t go, don’t turn away… it’s time to play again… you’re not going anywhere… you’re mine, my precious, my beautiful…”

**“We are forever.”**

                              “It smells like roses. Roses ~~and death~~.”

                                                          “We are…”       

He slips to the ground, eyes on the sky as if pleading to some unknown god or entity. The voices rise to a cacophony, a symphony of sound that only he can hear, because only he has died. They're all screaming to be heard, and he doesn't want to listen.

“The road to hell is paced with the seemingly ~~righteous~~ \--“                   

“We are madness wrapped up in logic. We are--“

                                “We…”

Scott opens his mouth as if to scream but no sound emerges. He swallows down a sob and curls up, breathing sounding like a match scraping against sandpaper.

                              "--Are--"

He just wishes the screaming would stop. He thinks he could at least focus if the voices would stop shouting. The light is dim and he wonders how long it's been, how much time he's missed now. It had been morning seconds ago.

Hadn't it?

                                 "Here."

He shuts it all off, the world, the voices, the pain, the sound, all of it.

He just wants it all to go away.

" _Listen_."

***

He wakes to the sound of a twig crunching underfoot.

He opens blurry eyes and is already on his feet, the wolf part of him much more alert than the human half. His muscles are moving before he can really think about it as his hand lashes out, enclosing around a small wrist that is stretching towards him.

His gaze zeroes in on the short haired blonde who rears back in surprise with just a hint of a snarl in her expression.

“Nate?” he asks, startled and lets her wrist go.

“Woah!” Nate looks alarmed, hands flying up in defence and eyes wide. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you! I was just-- Isaac asked me to run patrol after you never got back--said you hadn’t turned up at the loft--“

Scott feels the world catch up to him. It feels like he’s just been hit by an express train. “I just needed some--time to myself.”

She narrows her gaze at him. Well at least Scott can now tell Stiles he tried to lie to a werewolf. It doesn’t work. Not even a true alpha is an exception to that rule.

He shakes his head, “It’s nothing.” He says, “I was just--“ he waves one hand about, “Freaking out a little.”

He expects the female alpha to push and demand answers, but she just shrugs, “There’s a lot to freak out about. You’re gonna’ have to be more specific.”

“Voices,” Scott sighs, and he paces down the hill slightly, kicking up leaves.

“Mmm _hmm_ ,” Nate hums, “I thought that Lydia was the banshee.”

“She is,” Scott shrugs, and offers no more.

“Are you okay?” he doesn’t expect the question and it takes him a moment to think of an answer.

And the truth is - no - he isn’t okay. He hasn’t been okay since the sacrifice. He hasn’t been okay since he woke up in that ice cold bath and felt there was something missing. “Not really.” He answers honestly.

Nate trails along behind him, gaze sweeping the forest. “Good,” she says, and then backtracks. “Not that I mean it’s good - just that you’re being honest.” Her eyes widen helplessly and whatever calm composure she has gets lost as she somehow manages to trip over a tree root. Scott grabs her with one arm and the alpha clutches to him, looking harried. “You don’t look okay,” she says, meeting his gaze. “Neither does your friend. Stiles doesn’t look like he’s had a good night’s sleep in weeks, even though he’s dozing almost all the time. Allison keeps jumping at shadows. I keep think she’s gonna’ shoot me.” She pulls away and with her arms out for balance steps backwards.

Scott feels a pool of guilt settle in his stomach. He hasn’t known it was that bad.

He should have seen. He should have realised.

In the distance a girl dances through the trees and blossoms and leaves whirl around her as if she’s some sort of forest spirit.

Then he blinks and they aren’t leaves; its fire raining down around her hair and her corpse is skipping, red bone and burns covering her body.

One more blink and there is nothing there.

“We’ve been through a hard time lately,” Scott admits weakly, “We had a pack here, made up of alphas, and we had a killer druid who had a feud with them. We got caught in the middle.”

Nate has moved ahead of him, phone out and texting something but now she stops and looks back to him. “We had a friend,” she says shortly. “He--“ she stops, and then starts again, “He was going through a rough patch.” Her gaze wanders nervously, “And instead of talking to us about it he went behind our backs and--“ she swallows.

“And what?” Scott prompts.

“He made a deal,.” Nate’s eyes drops to the floor. “He made a deal with a demon.”

It’s probably Scott’s imagination but the air feels just that little bit colder.

“She came the night of the full moon,” Nate’s voice is distant, lost in thought, “To complete the deal. She stepped out of nowhere with eyes that were pitch black.” Scott wonders what’s worse, eyes of hellfire or eyes of nothing.

“What happened to your friend?” he asks gently. He feels like he shouldn’t pry, but curiosity wins over.

Nate shrugs, “She took him. But not before she murdered my pack.” Her tone is almost dismissive, but Scott can hear the waver in it, and the waves of emotion that swamp her. He steps forwards, not quite sure how to offer sympathy and settles for slipping his hand around hers and holding it. She doesn’t meet his gaze. “She ripped them apart,” the girl says, a little distantly and she stares into the distance as if she can almost see it. “She ripped them apart and she laughed. How can you-- who can do that?”

Scott squeezes her hand gently and pulls her to face him, “You survived,” he says, “You and Lexi and Jethro.”

Nate isn’t crying, but she might as well be for the emotions that can be seen in her gaze, “The demon stole Luke away,” she whispers, “And Jethro--he just followed. He dragged us with him,” she stops, swallowing.

“Is that what tired him out?” Scott asks.

The girl nods, “He’s not dangerous,” she blurts out, “He’s not a threat to you.”

Scott shakes his head to dispel those notions, “We don’t think he is,” he assures her. “What… what is he?”

She looks past Scott to the sky, then off to one side, and finally, uncomfortably she looks back towards him. “We don’t know what he is--” she admits, “--but he can sense energies. Manipulate them. He can ‘feel’ what people are thinking by reading their energy patterns. And he harnessed that demon’s energy to drag us all the way here.” Now her voice turns slightly bitter and she laughs hollowly, “It put him in a coma for a month and now we’re stuck in California. He can’t get us back. What was the point? What’s the-- we should have just died back there under the moon. It--“ her breath catches, “It would have been a good way to die…” she breathes out.

Scott tugs at her hand and makes her look at him, “No,” he says gently but firmly, “No it wouldn’t have. Who would have saved us from the hounds, huh?” he offers a small smile, “And I’m sorry about your pack, I really am, but you’re alive. And yeah, I could give you the spiel about how you should live your life for them, but I’m not going to. Because in the end you’ve got to live your life for those that are alive, and that’s you and Lexi and Jethro and you’ve got to keep going. For them.”

Nate pulls away, closing off again. “He’ll hate that I told you all that,” she whispers, “We were keeping it quiet… we didn’t think you’d like it, we thought you’d freak and make us leave.”

“You’re welcome to stay here,” Scott gestures to the forest, “And we’ll try to help. But this thing - with the demons and ghosts? It might be bigger than we previously thought.”

The female alpha nods numbly.

“I know this is the last place you want to be,” he adds, “But as long as you pose us no threat, then you guys are fine to stay.”

“And Jethro?” Nate asks, finding her voice, “What are you going to do about him?”

Scott grins, “Recently Lydia and Stiles have acquired a large number of books on the supernatural. The pair of them have already been searching through for ghosts and druids, and I’m sure they’ve already added energy manipulating creature to the list.” His head tilts slightly sheepishly, “We kinda’ guessed there was something different about him. I mean - he teleported you here, right?” He adds, “We could kind of tell you were lying about that so they looked into it.” He grins, “That and we usually make friends with pretty special people.”

Nate purses her lips and her frame relaxes slightly, her tense stance loosening. “You’ve got to remember that too,” she says.

Scott frowns, puzzled, “Remember what?”

“That you’re welcome here too,” Nate says, and shakes her head, “That you have people,” her eyes are emotional, “To live for.” Her brows furrow as if she’s confused herself. “I guess what I’m trying to say--“ she concludes, “-- is that you have a brilliant pack who are kind enough to let us stay here. You’re not alone. So you -- let people in too - okay?”


	19. Choking On Their Halos

“What do you mean you ‘lost it’?”

Castiel has just managed to successfully use quotation marks, but Sam doesn’t even notice as he watches Dean tear through a pile of boxes. They’d already been through these once already to find the key to Oz, and now they’re once again being thrown into disarray as Dean pulls the piles apart in search of the spear.

Sam casts a glance around the bunker, wondering if he should be wary of books flying his way. Castiel looks at them with confusion and frustration. He also appears to be sniffing at the chair that Crowley had claimed for himself last time he was here.

Of course now Crowley had cut and run with the first blade but at least they had him off their backs. Now without ghosts haunting them they could finally pull this out.

“Aha!” Dean exclaims as he triumphantly withdraws something. He pushes the weak floppy cardboard lid off and reaches in.

“It got stolen,” Sam tells Castiel. “--by a sociopathic werewolf who is a compulsive liar and a psychopath to boot. We don’t know where to find him but we’ve got someone who says that if he shows up he’ll drop us a ring.” Chris Argent knew little more than ‘the werewolf stole something from us that we need back’ but the hunter just seemed to accept that. Personally Sam thought he wanted any excuse to waste the guy, and neither he nor Dean were averse to giving him one.

“But we’ve got this,” Dean steps forwards and presents it to Cas. “And we think they’re a matched pair.”

“Well according to legend the lance is meant to start bleeding when in presence of the grail.” Sam adds, “That’s why it’s called the ‘bleeding lance’.”

The angel looks tired. Apparently he’s been picking up followers almost everywhere he turns and he doesn’t appear to want it. Thankfully Castiel ‘the rebel’ makes a good leader, despite what he thinks.

He still sucks at driving though, and had turned up at the bunker eventually in that stupid trench coat of his. He seems to have lost the tie though, and Sam couldn’t understand why Dean was so damn pleased at that. He sincerely hopes Dean isn’t planning on molesting the angel any time soon.

“Is this--“ Castiel reaches out for it and then draws back sharply as if burned, “The Holy Spear,” he breathes it like a curse - something blaspheme - but full of wonder. “Together,” he says, and his voice actually shakes slightly, “Together they say the spear and cup can be wielded to great power. You-- You must not let this relic be lost as well - understand?”

Sam sighs wearily, because he’d just spent ages trying to clear out the mad member of the Men of Letters’ mansion of ancient relics. For now the majority were all stuffed into one of the spare rooms, out of sight, out of mind.

He doubts he’d have the chance to sort through them any time soon.

“Great,” Dean tucks the sharp spear of wood into an inner pocket of his jacket. It’s about thirteen inches, and looks more like a sharp stake than a spear head, but that’s just Sam’s opinion.

It’s also made out of the same wood as the grail is and faintly lined with salt and wolfsbane carvings. He thinks the wood is mountain ash, but Sam’s going to have to check that sometime.

“I’ll keep it safe,” Dean promises, and Cas just nods. He’s so trusting of Dean (and Sam too nowadays) that the younger brother doesn’t get it. They’ve screwed so many things up, yet this one stupid angel continued to have faith in them.

They were either incredibly lucky or Castiel was incredibly stupid.

“So what’s the case?” Sam asks.

Castiel moves over to the table and upturns his pockets. There’s a wallet mixed in with the newspaper, and Sam scoops it up. “Dude?” he hisses, “Is this Jimmy’s?”

“Is Jimmy even alive?” Dean asks, frowning.

Castiel’s silence is their answer as he carefully and meticulously unfolds the newspaper. “Here,” he points at the headline. “There’s been a string of deaths. Babies killed barely out of their mother’s womb. And some even before.”

Oh crap. Sam had flagged that case, and they’d been on their way to it when Crowley had distracted them with words such as ‘grace’ and ‘demons’. He didn’t even bother passing it onto another hunter, had just forgotten about it - pushed it away.

“Babies can be used in all kinds of rituals. I’m worried some angel faction is trying to do something dangerous.”

“And if it’s not angels?” Sam asks.

“Demons,” Castiel answers without hesitation.

It always comes around to this nowadays.

***

“Remember when those witches were raising Samhain?” Dean comes up with out of nowhere.

“Yeah?”

“They needed bones of a baby. That they then char fried in the school kiln.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Well what else do you think you could do with them?”

Sam shoves the door in front of him open and fishes out his ID.  He doesn't really want to think too much about this. He clambers out of the car and stands, coming to an abrupt halt when he finds Castiel standing right in front of him.

"Uh--Cas?" he asks. The angel is standing stiffly and staring into the distance, "Angel radio talking?" Sam asks, slightly amazed that Castiel's pimp ride still works, let alone managed to get him to the city the same time as them.

Blue eyes slide to meet his own and there's a short sharp shake of his head. "The angels are too split to make angel radio anything other than a reliable method to broadcast your location." With a careful step to the side Castiel moves out of Sam's way allowing him to shut the door and look over to where Dean is frowning, puzzled.

They're currently parked outside the coroner's office. They're hoping to get into the morgue to see the bodies. The women have been found dead from blood loss mostly. At least that's what the reports say. All the women were past six months pregnant, and yet their babies were missing.

It's easy enough to get in and check. Sam often wonders how much of a difference he could have made to security companies by simply telling them how easy it is to fake a good ID. They used to get it done professionally, and then when the cash began to run low one time they had resorted to cheap photos stuck on. Then the FBI was on their trail for the third time and their skills became damn near impeccable with blending in, even if that included leaving behind Dean's beloved car.

Sam thinks he's far too used to seeing dead bodies. The one that Dean unlocks and rolls out is no longer stiff, but there's something about that unmoving statue-esque appearance that can never be replicated. He tries to remind himself that this is just a pile of flesh, and that the soul has moved on, but that might not be the case so he just settles for wondering about the dynamics of souls and spirits as Castiel draws away the cover and begins to eye up the body.

Her body is not even cut open. No incision or signs of early labour. Sam leans down to see the pale white stretch of skin from a different angle and there is still nothing.

Cas is sniffing at the body. Again. "Dean," Sam hisses, "Control your angel."

His brother looks like he is studiously trying to ignore his angel's weird habits when he suddenly pauses, and then with great deliberation turns and takes a deep breath.

"Not you too," Sam moans.

"No," Dean shakes his head, "Can't you smell?"

He leans past Sam and grabs a white swab from a nearby tray. Peering at the body he gently rolls the white cotton bud over the woman's skin, and then lifts it to the light. Something clings to the fibres and Dean thrusts it at Sam triumphantly.

Sam can see the pale cream-yellow substance and he doesn't need to resort to sniffing it to realise that its sulphur.

"So we're dealing with demons," he sighs, because it's not just Heaven in a civil war. Hell is also split along two sides and somehow he just knows that this side isn't going to back off with a few sharp reprimands from the King.

Dean spins the swab between his fingers, "Do witches leave sulphuric traces?" he asks.

Something occurs to Sam suddenly, and he speaks it out loud, "What if the woman was possessed?" he offers up, "And the baby -- that means the child was a cambion."

"You mean like that anti-christ? Jesse?" Dean's lips grow thin as he realises where Sam is coming from.

There is a shake of the head from the angel in residence and Sam is almost relieved, "No… with Lucifer locked away the power the demon spawn had is all but diminished." Then the angel tips the woman's chin up and sticks his fingers in her mouth. He's probably examining for sulphur, Sam thinks, but the angel isn't even wearing gloves and Sam's currently worrying about hygiene. "The woman has not been possessed," Castiel confirms, looking to Dean, "But still the child was taken by demons. And I do not know what for."

"This could be bad," Sam says, drawing the sheet back over the body. He slides the tray back in. "So what now? Witnesses?"

"The woman's husband lives three blocks from here," Dean says, "And her body was found only a street away from that."

"That's a good start then," Sam says, and he slams the door to the mortuary closed.

***

“So you’re saying that-- you’re from the FBI?”

The guy’s accent makes it sound like ‘eff-bee-eye’ has been rolled into one word. Castiel looks a little lost but Dean just nods determinedly. Sam mentally sighs, because the next line is going to be--

“But I already spoke to the cops.”

The younger Winchester’s smile is thin-lipped, “This is just protocol, Mr Harding, as I’m sure you understand.” He waves the notebook around. There’s nothing in it - it’s just for show. He hopes that Dean doesn’t try to play off Sam’s artistic skills again, but at least they’ve improved somewhat since the disaster of the guy with the coyote tattoo.

The husband looks grave, “My wife just died,” he snaps, irritably, “My child is dead and someone ripped her out of my dead wife’s body. I have an empty grave with no name on.”

“We understand,” Castiel speaks up, voice like gravel. “But we know a little about a lot of things, and we think this investigation may be part of something bigger.” Sam is relieved that Castiel isn’t too forthcoming with information, but just enough to motivate the husband into talking.

“My Gracie was just going out to the store. I was at home, after work, and she needed some spices for the fish.” He shakes his head numbly, “She was meant to be ten minutes but she-- she -- I started to worry after half an hour. I tried phoning her up but--“ he stops and starts like a broken record, “The pregnancy was going fine but when she didn’t reply I just--I panicked. I headed out to the store I stumbled over her body one street down. I just--I thought it was trash at first but then I saw her--“

Dean is stalking around the room, peering at letters and brochures pinned to the fridge, “And Grace, she was looking for employment?” he asks. “Part time?”

The husband nods numbly, “She had an interview down at the Korbin manor. They employ part-time and she was hoping that after the baby--“ he pauses to take a strangled breath.

“Korbin?” Dean asks, and he has a brochure in his hands, “What does that guy do?”

The husband shrugs, “Some rich guy. Rich house. He pays well though. The interview had been on Tuesday and Gracie said it went well. I guess they’re going to have to find someone else--“ he shakes his head, and Sam can see the grief swamping him. There is a picture on the mantle, of a pretty blonde haired woman and this man; both are smiling.

Now the blonde woman lies cold and pale and wraithlike in a morgue drawer and the man’s face shows no hint of a smile.

“Thank you for your time, Mr Harding,” he says.

He chooses an opportune moment to do so as Castiel turns suddenly to him and says: “Lilith used to eat children,” it is nowhere near a whisper, “Her children followed the practise too.” He adds. Sam is vividly reminded of a nurse, blood, screaming and gleaming white eyes.

“What?” the husband frowns.

Sam shakes his head, as if shaking away the memories. “We are terribly sorry for what occurred,” he speaks over the angel. “We think we should have enough.” He waves the notebook around and gives a weak smile.

His brother pockets something and nods awkwardly at the grieving husband. Castiel leads the way to the door, blue eyes scanning their surroundings warily.

They’re not really that much closer than before, but at least they’ve found another piece of the puzzle.

***

"The number one cause of death in pregnant women is homicide, usually by the father-to-be." Castiel sits in the back seat quoting figures to them.

Dean turns in his seat and rests his right arm on the headrest, "And you have nothing?" he asks, "No guesses, no clues, no leads, no demon tingling sense?"

Castiel frowns, "I do not have an ability to detect demons," he responds with, and it's such a typical Castiel-response that Sam wants to laugh. "I do however believe this may be of interest," and the angel pulls out a leaflet from his trench coat and offers it to Dean.

His brother takes it and spins around in his seat to read it. Sam wonders when Castiel snatched that up out of the poor guy’s house.

"What does it say?" Sam asks, and grabs it to examine the pamphlet. It’s advertising jobs at Korbin Manor. “You -- uh --want to find a job, Cas?”

“Not that,” Castiel turns it around and that’s when Sam sees it.

“No way,” Dean pulls the letter he stole earlier out of his pocket and compares it. On each piece of paper there is a seal design for the man who lives at the manor, a rectangle split into two with a semicircle stuck on one end. In the middle of each new box in the rectangle sit two inverted ‘v’ shapes with circles at each point. “That symbol,” Dean says, “Parts of that look almost enochian.”

“Parts of that almost are,” Castiel glares at the paper as if it personally offends him.

“Does it look familiar?” Dean asks.

Castiel stares at the paper, and he’s unwilling to answer. “Yes,” he says finally, and takes the pamphlet, “But it can’t be.”

“Don’t give us that,” Dean snatches it back. “What is it?”

The angel just shakes his head, “I need to--“ he looks around, “I need to check something,” he says, “Don’t do anything.”

“No!” Dean protests, “Cas, don’t go this alone.”

The angel in a trench coat leans back in the seat, “I’m not. I am as you say ‘collecting information’.” He sticks his hands in his pockets, and sighs. It’s something he must have picked up when he was human. “We’re dealing with a powerful demon,” he tells them, “Lilith level of power, if not more. But it shouldn’t be possible, it shouldn’t be--“ he shakes his head. “One hour,” he promises them. “I’ll meet you back at the motel in one hour and we can work from there.”

Dean’s mouth parts and then he just nods, “One hour,” he repeats, and with a grateful glance Castiel slides out of the back seat. He pauses, hand lingering on the door before he shuts it with care, as if realising how much this means to Dean. Sam sees his form walk away across the road towards where his car is parked.

He’s insisted on carting around ‘his’ car and Sam mildly worries whether they should go about buying him his own one to replace the stolen ride. They have some spare money, considering the heating, gas and electricity is all paid by some company in Cardiff called Torchwood, leaving any money they ‘earn’ in pool games is usually spare.

They could buy Cas a car. Sam is sure Dean at least will like the idea. Or maybe his brother won’t see the need.

With a sigh the engine starts and Dean pulls off. Sam has no idea where Castiel is going and he says as much to Dean.

“Who cares?” Dean sounds slightly betrayed, “Dude’s got angel soldiers to look after. He’ll be back in an hour anyway. Cas can’t get that far in an hour.”

He turns the corner and Sam leans back in his seat. Something digs into his side uncomfortably and he shifts.

There is a low whine and both brothers almost jump out of their skin.

“Dude, are you sitting on the EMF metre?” Dean casts a disgusted look at him.

Sam pulls out the device which whines in protest as he holds it up.

“Did you break it?” Dean looks even more horrified, “You’re paying for a new one,” he snaps, braking for a bus and some pedestrians.

The younger Winchester fiddles with the dial but the machine continues its irritated blipping. “No it’s… it’s going off,” he frowns in alarm. “Maybe with ghosts in the veil--“ he suggests.

Sam and Dean stare at the device suspiciously. "I thought Kevin went with his mom," Dean says.

"He did."

Sam switches it off and on again. It does nothing. Still driving, Dean casts the device a dark glance, looking at it as if it’s haunted. Sam shakes it and with a screeching whine the noise dies.

“Huh,” Dean says, “Maybe it’s just malfunctioning.”

“Should I pick up a new one?” Sam offers, since Dean will find a way to blame this on his, even though its Dean’s fault the damn thing is on the shotgun seat in the first place.

His brother scoffs in derision, “You can. But it’s not going to last. If you had just let me keep my Walkman made-one instead of throwing it out as a distraction for that hydra--“

“Oh my god, Dean, that was seven years ago! Let it go already!”

“I made that! You said it sucked but it lasted a lot longer than any of your fancy gadgets.”

“Well make a new one then!”

Their bickering is interrupted as they draw up at the motel. Irritated, Sam slams open the door. There is a small smile on his face, because despite everything their arguments haven’t been as small as arguing over an EMF metre for what feels like years. His brother is glaring at him as he slams the car door closed and locks it, pulling out the keys to the motel.

“We should read up over the reports again. See if there’s any pattern,” Sam says, stealing the keys and sticking them into the lock.

It’s for this reason that he’s the first through the door. He barely takes two steps than something crashes into him and he stumbles off to one side.

The door slams and Dean’s there, standing like a raging tiger in the doorway, barely contained fury and--something else. There’s a darkness there that Sam doesn’t recognise.

But whoever is waiting for Sam is expecting Dean too. His brother barely has time to choke out “Remiel,” than the figure moves and Dean stumbles down.

Sam’s barely aware of it as a heavy weight slams him forwards onto the table. He hits his head and black spots his vision. There is a loud crash as Dean falls down next to him. He blinks but can't see clearly.

He tries to remember where Castiel might have gotten to.

Next to him Dean is kneeling and glaring around. There are four figures pacing around them. With growing frustration Sam recognises the angel he had blasted out of the museum.

“Kamael,” Dean greets stiffly. Sam blinks, and his vision is still blotchy.

“You’ve given us nothing but trouble,” the female that had knocked Dean down stalks over, and roughly pulls open Dean’s jacket, removing the angel blade there with care. She tosses it to one side, and it lands by the bed and rolls off onto the floor. Sam eyes it up and another figure moves into his eye line.

“We’ve been tracking you ever since you ran out on us last month.”

Dean looks dazed but otherwise okay, “Wow,” he says, sarcastically, “You guys really need to find a hobby.” He eyes up the angels, “What happened to Ariel?” he says, and Sam’s amazed that Dean hasn’t given her a nickname yet.

“She’s around,” Remiel snarls, looking pissed. She looks like she’s about to punch Dean, but the other angel holds her back.

Kamael’s gaze is judging and dark as he looks at the brothers, “Where’s the grail?” he asks.

“What?” Sam grins. It feels lopsided. “Your angel senses not working properly?”

A dark skinned angel punches him. It feels like he just ran into a brick wall.

“Zophiel!” Kamael snaps. He’s having trouble controlling his little band. There are four of them, and Sam knows Remiel and Kamael from before, but the other two are unfamiliar. The dark skinned woman is obviously Zophiel, and she reminds him a bit of Raphael in a female vessel, but her hair is in a tight bun and there is something more exotic about her features.

The final angel looks like he’s come straight from Australia, and has spent all the time in between surfing and now sports a golden tan. His suit isn’t as formal as the others, and he looks relaxed and when he speaks, it’s without the formalness of the other angels - instead being more of a drawl. “We’ve wasted enough time,” he sighs, “Now give us the grail. Or things are going to get nasty.”

“We don’t have it,” Dean snarls, and Remiel’s hand closes on the back of his neck, pale spindly fingers wrapping around as she forced his head up, ducking down next to him.

“You’re lying,” she says. Sam has never known angels too be vicious before, and these four strike as more desperate than anything else, but he’s still nervous. They’re not just desperate, they’re unpredictable.

“I’m not,” Dean says hoarsely, “It got stolen. By a pureblood werewolf named Peter Hale. Go chase after him if you want it back. And good riddance.”

Remiel shoves him away from her, and Dean crashes to the floor. He was unable to break his fall with his hands, but now he pushes himself off the ground, hands splayed, spitting away blood from a split lip.

“We. Don’t. _Know_. Where it is.” Dean repeats.

“Elyon?” Remiel asks, looking towards the fourth angel.

He frowns, looking confused, “He’s not lying.”

“Yeah, that usually means he’s telling the truth,” Dean snarks. Sam winces as the expectant kick comes, flooring his brother. Dean barely seems to feel it, fingers clenching into fists.

With a frustrated sound Kamael spins away, pacing up and back, “We need it,” he hisses. Zophiel steps back to let him past, “We need that cup.”

Sam’s mouth grows dry when he realises that Dean’s got the spear in their car. Or even in his jacket, Sam’s not sure where his brother put it. It might even be under his pillow for all the younger brother knows.

When the lock of their door clicks open he slumps slightly in relief. There is only one other person who has a key, and though he might be woefully outnumbered, they might have a chance to be saved from vengeful angels.

“I think I’ve got something--“ Castiel is saying upon his entrance, and then freezes at the sight of the angels with Sam and Dean sprawled on the floor.

Remiel shoves the door closed and there’s a silver blade in her hands.

Kamael turns slowly towards the door, and his eyes light up. “Castiel,” Kamael smirks as their friend looks startled. Castiel steps back until he is pressed against the motel door, his hands hanging loosely by his side. Whatever advantage Castiel’s appearance might have given them it’s futile.

He had been expected and their friend casts Sam a frantic look.

Kamael’s grin is predatory as he withdraws an angel blade. He spins it slowly in his hand and steps forwards, almost threateningly. “Castiel,” he says again, “How nice of you to join us.”


	20. Losing My Mind

The sun streams in through the open window. It’s warm on her skin, and she relaxes into it, her eyes fluttering sleepily, curling into the duvet. Allison wonders in the back of her mind if that’s why she’s so fond of werewolves, because they burn so warm.

With a yawn she wakes fully, stretching out tired muscles. Her fingers curl and she sits up fully, staring at the open window.

That’s funny, she muses, because she doesn’t remember leaving it open. Had she still been dating Scott she wouldn’t have been surprised to see the open window, Scott had been bad at closing doors behind him, let along the windows he sneaks through into other people’s houses. It shouldn’t be so easy, so movie-like to be able to do that but apparently it was a werewolf thing, according to Stiles who had found Derek Hale in his room once.

Allison wasn’t even going to ask what that was about.

Her phone beeps with a text from Lydia. She reaches over to look at it but her dad calling her startles her and she aborts the movement.

“Allison! School!” he sounds short with her, frustrated over something. Allison frowns, puzzled because for one, her dad usually trusts her to get to school on time and two, he’s a morning person. He’s usually sharp eyed and solemn as always, and not snappish.

He’s sitting in the living room when she finally is up. He’s holding a brown wooden frame in his hands. It’s a dark wood, pretty and varnished and it catches the morning light. Chris Argent holds it in both hands and his head bows slightly as he looks at it.

There is a lump in her throat when she sees the picture. “Bye,” she offers, not knowing what to do. Her dad never needs comfort, he’s always her rock, the strong brave hunter, and so she heads to the door to give him some room.

“You look just like her you know.”

She freezes, because her dad’s voice sounds like broken glass. She lets her bag slip off her shoulders and walks over to behind the sofa. She peers over, casting a shadow over the picture but she can still make out the familiar dazzling smile and pale eyes.

It’s a picture of her mom. Chris shifts it out, away from her shadow and stands it on the centre of the table, as if it has its own place on honour there. Allison steps back as he stands, not turning to face her.

“Dad?” she asks, “Are you… are you okay?”

He’s probably drunk, she realises. She doesn’t think she’s seen her dad drunk in a long time.

“You look so much like her,” Chris stares down at the photograph. “There are times I can’t bear to look at you.”

Allison swallows a lump in her throat. She doesn’t know if her dad means this, or if he’s angry about something she did, drunk and doesn’t know what he’s saying. He turns slowly to look at her, and his gaze is dark and disappointed, “She’d be so disappointed with you.” he says, quietly. “Hanging out with werewolves like they’re your friends.”

She shakes her head slowly, “Dad?” she whispers.

He gazes at her steadily, and his gaze seems hollow.

“He’s right you know.”

She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t scream. This has happened before after all, and she glances over her shoulder to see her mother standing there. Victoria Argent looks pale. There is a bloody red stain on her jumper where Allison knows the blade went through her.

“I…” she glances back to her father, “I’m going to school,” he voice grows stronger, “Call me if you need me to pick anything up,” she steps backwards, away from her dad who remains standing there.

She rushes out of the door, face flushing, and tears pricking in the corner of her eyes. Her dad will be better when she gets back. She knows he will, and so she shoves it to the back of her mind and fumbles for her car keys.

***

Coach’s voice drones on and Stiles stares down at the white page, doodling something idly in the margin.

Why does he even need economics anyway? And why the hell did their teacher learn economics when lacrosse is obviously his obsession? When did he even have time? Stiles struggles as it is with all the werewolf crap that gets thrown his way on a monthly basis.

Sitting in class is that last thing any of the pack want to do but to strive for even a sliver of normality they still attend. Stiles is no longer sure what he’s going to do after school. Or what Scott or Allison or Lydia have planned - it’s hard to balance pack loyalty with your own hopes and dreams.

That and being a werewolf, hunter and a banshee makes things difficult. In a way Stiles is almost relieved he’s just plain human. It would suck if he had other things to worry about in addition to the usual teenage issues.

So for now he’s just going to try and balance the usual chaos of Beacon Hills with work. He stares down at the page rubbing the back of his neck and hiding a yawn.

“Greenberg!” Coach barks, and Stiles’ head jolts up startled. They’re all still jumpy from the hell hounds. It’s been three weeks though, but they’re all still jumping at shadows. A few seats away, Scott is tapping the table with his pen and Jethro chews on a pen lid, rolling it around with his mouth as he stares at their open text book.

“Bilinski!” Finstock snaps, standing right in front of him. Stiles doesn’t even jump, just lets his gaze slide up to the teacher. “Page three-hundred and twenty three.” He shouts. Their teacher has one set volume and one volume only. “Turn to it. And read. Now.”

He stalks away to go and glare at Scott and to mutter something to the alpha werewolf about lacrosse. Stiles sees Jethro turn to frown at the guy in confusion.

Obviously British teachers aren’t as insane as American ones.

With a sigh he drops his head to look at his book, propping his head on one arm. He looks down and blinks.

At first he thinks he must be crying. He wipes at his one eye but nothing changes. It still looks the same, but it still looks wrong.

His breath hitches and he looks up, but the rest of his vision is normal. He looks down again at the words, the letters, the small black lines--

The words on his page are dripping.

The ink runs down and blurs together as if smudged by rain. The page behind is ice white, and the black mingles with it, grey letters like watermarks over the top.

His breath catches in his throat and he hears his heart rate stutter. Alarmed, he presses down on the page, fingers splayed slightly as he stares at it, trying to blink away the blurring ink and the twisting sigils that curve and circle around into strange letters of an alphabet that he doesn't know.

It’s still there, even when he shakes his head and looks away. Around him colours slowly seep out of his surroundings into some distorted water painting. On the floor the inks pool together in a kaleidoscope of colour, and on his page the words are still unreadable.

Stiles’ head is swimming and it's too much. He’s lightheaded and barely aware of his light and fast breathing. If he doesn’t get out of here he’s going to have a full blown panic attack right in the classroom.

He shoves back his chair and stands, preparing to make a quick exit. The chair scrapes against the floor. The sound grates at his ears.

He stands and looks up, preparing to find some excuse to tell Coach. His mouth opens but the words get stuck in his throat, because there's no teacher at the front of the classroom.

He's not even in the classroom anymore. Instead the room is gone, and he's in a forest with leaf litter and moss clinging to the damp soil. He can feel it shift under foot as he stumbles backwards, away from the sight in front of him.

The Nemeton trunk is huge. It would take him, Scott, Allison and Isaac together to wrap their arms around it. It sits there and its presence in so demanding that it draws your attention.

It's not real. Stiles closes his eyes and turns his head away, but he can't bring himself back. When he opens his eyes again the trunk is still there, cleanly cut and dead. It's illuminated, as if the moon shines down on it from above. There are lights in the sky but they remind Stiles of the lacrosse pitch lights, and not the gentle light of the moon. It's like the sun, and they burn so brightly until all he can see is the dead Nemeton.

He shuts his eyes, and there is nothing but silence screaming in his ears. It's almost worse somehow. He can still see the light, blinding even through his closed lids.

It's not real. He'll keep telling himself that until he opens his eyes to the classroom.

It's not real.

He drops to the ground covering his ears, clawing at his hair and clenching his fingers in the strands for support. Maybe if he tries hard enough it might somehow block out the silence.

His mouth opens in a silent scream.

                                                                                                                                _Wake up! ~~(This might hurt).~~_

***

Coach stops talking when Stiles tumbles upright. The whole class grinds to a halt and gazes swivel to watch Stilinski. Jethro chews idly on a pen lid, and glances at his new friend, idly tuning out the muted frequencies of other people's thoughts to focus in on Stiles'.

There's nothing.

He blinks, and stares at his friend. Even werewolves aren't this tricky to pin down, but there is absolutely nothing there. It's as if Stiles is elsewhere. Even his gaze is distant and he opens his mouth as if to say something and then closes it, shaking his head and blinking violently as if dazzled by something.

"Stilinski?" Coach asks, "Either say something or sit down because I am…" he stops because Stiles is trembling violently, as if really cold. His hands ball themselves into fists and then relax, and his brown eyes drift in and out of focus.

It's clear he's not listening. He can't hear them and Scott is out of his seat before Jethro even realises that something is wrong. He follows, moving over as the human shakes his head and clenches his eyes closed sharply, as if dazzled. His arms shake and he curls up into himself, mouthing something to himself.

"Stiles! Stiles!" Scott shouts, "Snap out of it! It's not real! Whatever you're seeing it's not real!"

_It's not real._

At that same moment Jethro realises Stiles is repeating his friend's words, already saying them over and over without a voice. Jethro can barely read the frantic mouthing that jumbles together. Stiles staggers sideways, as if to get away but he’s uncoordinated, and crashes to the ground. His knees hit the floor with a thump and his hands come up to cover his ears, hearing something beyond even Jethro and Lydia's range of perception.

"Holy--" Coach Finstock looks alarmed, moving towards where Stiles shakes on the floor. Scott looks like he wants to shake his friend's shoulder but seems unsure, hands hovering.

Jethro drops down beside him, and shouts. "Stiles! Stiles!"

He is shoved out of the way by Lydia. He sprawls, moving backwards and watching with wide eyes as Lydia leans close to Stiles, and he can't hear what she says above the murmur of voices and the teacher's panicked shouting for someone to call the Sheriff.

"What's wrong with him?"

"Is that a panic attack?"

The student's whispers mingle with their thoughts and Jethro shoves himself upright, grabbing onto the desk and pulling himself up. He can hear Scott's own hum of concern, no clear focus, and Lydia's is the same, which would make sense, because they're both not human.

Then with a start Stiles mind snaps into focus, like adjusting a lens, and Jethro is aware of the _notreanotreal_ tang of fear and bone deep terror. With a great gulp as if he was gasping for breath, Stiles startles out of his attack. His eyes open and his hands fly out, dropping down from his ears. He claws at the air in front of him, as if trying to shove Lydia and Scott away. His breath trembles and his shoulders shudder violently.

He recoils away from his friends as if burnt, eyes rolling around before they come to rest on Lydia's face.

"I...uh...what?" he says, and even his voice is weak and trembling. "Lydia?" His eyes slam shut, "No don't, don't it's not real…." his voice dies down but his lips still move.

"I'd be a pretty rubbish anchor if I couldn't bring you back," Jethro hears her say, before Scott moves forwards to grab onto his best friend's shoulders. Stiles opens his eyes, hyperventilating and focussing on his friends.

"I… I saw the Nemeton." Stiles whispers. "It was just there. Everywhere. It was…" he swallows his words, and sinks down into himself, and Scott holds him up, supporting him. “What’s wrong with us?” he asks, staring at Scott, looking terrified.

"Coach, we're taking him to the medical room." Jethro stands and shoves away curious students. Lydia follows his lead and drags Stiles and Scott up. The human sags onto his friend eyes blurring as if staring at something no-one else can see.

Finstock looks startled, and confused. "We don't have a medical room," he is unnerved by the British terminology. "What's wrong with Stilinski?" he asks, "McCall?"

"Stress," Jethro sidesteps into the Coach's line of sight as Lydia and Scott escape the crowded room. People's attention gradually drifts off, and Jethro grins as Finstock stares at him. "It's the workload getting to him." he adds, "That and he's dating Lydia. That's stressful too."

"Lydia _Martin_?" Coach looks alarmed, and even more confused.

"That'd be the one," Jethro nods, backing away. He leans over to grab the bags that are stuffed under the tables, "I'll uh… take them their stuff. Go see if Stiles is okay--" he beats a hasty exit.

 ***

 “Are you okay?” Jethro asks Stiles later that day. They’re walking down the steps around the side of the school and to one side Nate is bugging Lydia about tutorial sessions while Scott trails after them.

The human nods slightly, “Yeah.” He shrugs, and tries to grin and move on but Jethro’s look kind of prevents that. “I’m fine.” Stiles says, “Look, it’s not the first freak out that we’ve had lately.”

“You call that a freak-out?” Jethro hisses, stalking after Stiles. “Dude you were hallucinating in class. Your alpha is hearing weird voices. Your hunter is seeing ghosts of her dead relatives…”

“How do you know?” Stiles pulls up sharply, staring at him. He’s confused and slightly wary.

Jetho continues for another few paces before realising that Stiles isn’t besides him. He turns around, and studiously examines the ground, “It’s just something I do. I can sort of read minds.” He winces, waiting for the accusations.

Instead he hears his new friend curse. “Well thanks for telling us now,” for a usually happy teenager, Stiles is strangely irritated. Then again he’s also freaking out internally - at least Jethro thinks he is. At the moment he’s respecting other people’s privacy and avoiding reading their thoughts.

“Nate said you already knew I was different,” Jethro cautiously points out.

Stiles falls back into pace next to him. “It’s kind of our job to know that sort of stuff,” he says, “Otherwise it gets us killed.” He’s way too flippant about this.

“So share with the class,” Jethro admits that he jumps at the first opportunity presented to him, “Spill about what you saw.”

The human scoffs. “A dead tree?” he asks, “That’s what you want to know? That I saw a dead tree trunk and freaked out?”

“Is that it? Is that really why you freaked out?”

“No.” Stiles chews on his lip and glances to one side where their friends are chatting, “It was just the tree.” He says, as if that makes sense. “There was nothing else… and if there was I couldn’t see it. Couldn’t hear it. It was like I was back in that white room again. It was… it was like I was dead.”

Jethro hears the word ‘again’ tacked onto the end of the sentence. He doesn’t complain when Stiles changes the subject abruptly, shaking away whatever mood that had hung over him and pulling out a bottle of water, unscrewing it and taking a sip. “So,” he says, swallowing, “What did you tell Coach anyway? He’s never going to let this go. I’m going to be hearing about it for the rest of the year.”

"Oh yeah!" Jethro adds brightly as he is reminded of his brilliant cover story. Looking back he wishes he had waited until Stiles wasn’t mid-sip of his water as he announces: "I told everyone you were dating Lydia Martin."

Stiles chokes on his drink.

***

Nate studiously examines the interior of the car in front of her. It's new, and what little small talk she has been able to make with the huntress has determined that her dad gets them for his job or selling weapons. Apparently having a nice car is an important aspect of that.

"Here," Allison clambers in, and tosses over a bottle. "Lemonade."

For a werewolf Nate is stupidly clumsy. She drops the bottle in her lap and then picks it up, waiting to observe it fizzing.

Nothing happens. Cautiously she half-twists the lid, and there's still no familiar hiss of gas release. "It's not fizzy." she says, frowning.

Allison glances at her quizzically from the driver's seat. That's another thing to get used to. Nate feels like she's driving the car sitting on the right hand side. "Lemonade isn't fizzy." she says, looking at Nate as if she's mad.

"Yes it is." Nate repeats. "That's why it's called Lemonade. If I wanted--" she takes a moment to open the bottle fully and sniff it, and then just to make sure she tastes a bit too, pulling a face a little at the sharp tang of citrus. "--lemon juice I would have asked for it."

"Lemonade isn't fizzy." Allison repeats, "Is it in uh… England?"

"Yes!" Nate hisses. This is like the cherry on the top of the cake of bad times in the life of Natalie Claine. She's an alpha in an unfamiliar territory, town, country and even the lemonade doesn't have the decency to be fizzy.

"Here." Allison hands a coke over. Except Nate thinks she'd call it a cola, but at least it smells familiar. "I'll have that then."

"Really?" Nate asks, and then takes it, "Thanks."

Allison just shrugs, sipping the drink and eyeing some guy crossing in front of the car. She's got a hunter's eye, assessing for weaknesses even if she doesn't realise it. It makes Nate uneasy, even though she knows the huntress is just nervous after what happened to Stiles and Scott earlier that week. She's the remaining one of the trio, and where's her freak out? It's almost inevitable and it makes the Argent twitchy. It's also Thursday, and according to the pack (and Jethro) nothing good ever happens on a Thursday.

"Where's he going?" Allison asks, almost rhetorically.

The blonde follows the hunter's gaze to the man who is hurrying somewhere. "Looks like he's late for work." Nate answers. "Like-- really late." she shrugs. "Who knows?"

"Not him." Allison opens her car door and before Nate knows it she's climbing out. Scrambling to follow the blonde pokes her head over the car and stares in the distance. There's a police car parked outside a house at the end of the street, and she smells more than sees the Sheriff in the distance.

"So we're going to check it out?" Nate is already regretting her life choices. Allison stands there for a moment with the car door half open in indecision. They're meant to be picking up Lydia for school, but the red-head hasn't shown up yet. So Nate sighs, thinks 'screw it' and slams her door closed and strides confidently over to the house.

If she's going to be stuck in this goddamn town she might as well help this pack out. They seemed to need all the help they could get.

The alpha girl only gets within a radius of ten metres before the smell hits her. She's standing by the gate and the end of the path leading to the front door and all she can smell is unwashed body odour and the pungent smell of death.

She gags, holding on hand to her nose.

"Natalie?" the Sheriff is standing next to a good looking deputy, staring at her. He glances around and then seems to half-roll his eyes before remembering his image and stopping mid-roll. "Well at least Stiles isn't here." he says. "Allison."

Nate jumps at the hunter's appearance. She moves so quietly that distracted by the strong scents the werewolf hadn't heard her move up behind her. "What happened?" Allison asks mildly.

The Sheriff glances at his companion and then steps forwards. "I told this to Stiles and I'll tell it to you. Nothing supernatural."

"There's a dead body in there." Nate says. It's not a question.

The Sheriff looks pained. "The guy just kind of… stopping living."

"Weird euphamism for death." Nate comments, narrowing her eyes at the Sheriff, staring in a manner her dad used to do to get someone to talk.

Sheriff Stilinski just sighs, and it's bone deep, weary and worried all in one. "From what we can see the guy hasn't moved in a month." Nate frowns, prepared to channel Jethro and make another sarcastic comment when the man adds, "He was sitting on the sofa for two, three weeks or so before his body actually caved in. Didn't eat. Didn't drink. I'm amazed he lasted this long."

The huntress next to her glances around the Sheriff, "So you're saying this guy died because… he sat down and just… stayed there? Because he was too lazy to do anything else?"

The Sheriff shrugged, "What can I say? People are weird."

Allison was still peering around the Sheriff, staring down the streets. "The Reserve is right there." she says idly, almost to herself. "This is the street into town. My mom and I came along here when we first arrived. Drove right past the Nemeton."

Nate's head snaps around. "The what?" she asks.

"The Nemeton." Allison repeats, but the word makes no more sense the second time. At least not to her. "The Nemeton…" Allison says, eyes sliding out of focus. “It's less than a mile away… It's--" she jolts away.

"Allison? Allison!"

"Isaac's right," the huntress sounds numb. "It's all connected. All the deaths are connected to the Nemeton."


	21. There Will Be Blood

Nobody has been sleeping.

Scott hasn't noticed at first, but it's only after his ordeal in the woods that he finally arrived home exhausted and bleary eyed but still found he was unable to relax. His mom was already home, and the look she had given him was one of frustration and full of words that she didn't know how to say.

He had somehow managed to broach the topic of the hounds and demons with her, but he knew that it hadn't gone down well. There was a gap there that Scott couldn't seem to breach, while his mom lost herself in work and hissed arguments past midnight with his dad.

The rest of the pack is uneasy and everyone actually looks just about ready to commit murder. He’s known Isaac can have a dark streak, especially considering his childhood, but he has also learned recently that Stiles and Allison can be bloodthirsty sometimes and that Lydia takes a weird satisfaction from seeing people in pain.

Stiles hasn't slept since yesterday and his freak out in the classroom. He had been practically nodding off in lessons, while everyone gave him a wide berth and started whispering behind his back. Lydia had taken to glaring at anyone who spoke to loudly, which only served to somehow convince people that the pair were dating. Scott had no idea how that link was made, but either Lydia and Stiles had not yet heard the rumours or they had and were making no attempt to deny it.

He's actually kind of glad when Allison made the call cancelling school. It's a Thursday again, and some part of him wishes this sort of stuff could happen on weekends.

Allison looked exhausted too, but she was channelling her nervous energy into something productive at least. She was pacing in the loft next to the wall Stiles had stolen to stick pictures of the murders on. She was now staring at it intently, with Isaac standing over her shoulder.

"We've been looking at this all wrong," Allison is pulling strings down from the wall and reconnecting them. We've been looking at where the murders have taken place. But we should instead be looking at where the people live."

She's reconnecting the strings, and slowly but surely Scott can see new patterns emerging.

The strings all congregate along the bottom right corner of the map.

That's when Scott sees it. "That's…" he steps forwards to peer closer, "That's where the Nemeton is!"

"The Nemeton?" Jethro asks, "The tree?"

Nate shakes her head, "It's not just any tree," her voice sounds grave, "It's a druid tree. One of huge power. It's like a beacon…" she stops and looks to Scott.

He nods at her in confirmation, "It's why this town is called Beacon Hills." he says, "The tree been cut down for years but the power is still there. Recently Stiles, Allison and I made a sacrifice to the Nemeton. It tied us to the tree which is why we've been - out of it a little."

"A little?" Nate laughs, "You look like death warmed over."

"I don't get it." Jethro continues to stare at the map. "The dead oak tree is causing people to die?"

The younger sister - Lexi - stands up next to her friend. "No,” she shakes her head, “But something that powerful - like Scott says it might die but the power is still there. It seeps outwards, and usually it's fine. It's just normal but here - it's like its gone bad and the people who live near it are going bad as well. But so bad that it's killing them."

When her sister looks at her curiously Lexi gets defensive, “What? Just because I listened to mum’s stories.”

Scott glances at the others as they form a sort of semi-circle around the wall. "It must mess with your personality. Your hubris'. You said that guy died from laziness - right?" he directs towards Allison and Nate.

The female alpha nods. "And then this one--" she stabs a finger at a picture, "Kid drowning. Maybe the parents let it happen. We'd have to poke around and I don't really want to be doing that with grieving parents."

"But the rock climbing - that's more like an accident." Isaac points out, "The drowning could have been an accident too."

Scott looks around for Stiles and his erratic linking of events but his friend is absent. "Where's Stiles?" he asks, because he doesn't want to force his friend into school without him. He could have sworn that he had told Stiles to come to the loft.

The huntress looks around sharply, and then her face creases, guiltily, "Where's Lydia?" Allison frowns. "We were meant to pick her up for school but she never showed. Then we got distracted by the body."

Isaac shrugs, "Don't look at me."

Scott pulls out his phone and hits speed dial.

_"Wha-what? Scott?"_

"Dude!?" Scott exclaims at the familiar voice answering the phone, "Where have you been? And have you seen Lydia?"

_"Been? What do you mean - I told you - oh my - you never listen do you - look - never mind just…"_

"Stiles." Scott takes a deep breath, "Tell me where you are."

_"Me and Lydia went body hunting. There's another death. And let me tell you it’s… it's not pretty."_

***

Stiles' phone rings with a buzz and he answers it without really thinking, trying to locate where he hid his history textbook after the latest symbol disaster. It was beginning to get harder and harder to try and pretend to his dad that everything was okay, especially when he had to bury his head under three pillows to drown out the taunting voices of ghosts that obviously had nothing else to do with their time other than annoy him.

"Stiles?" Lydia's voice is weak and trembling. He's alert instantly, despite his fatigued state.

"Yeah? Lydia? What's wrong?"

There's a pause, "I… I'm not sure where I am. I woke up outside wandering along the streets."

Stiles is grabbing his car keys, "Is there a street sign, a shop, anything…? Just wait there and I'll pick you up."

"I…" she sounds scared, "I can't stop. Stiles. I can't. There's something -- I've got to get there. I've got to."

Stiles remembers Lydia being drawn to dead bodies like a magnet and before he really processes it he's grabbed a piece of toast and is out the door, "Where are you? I'm on my way - just give me some signs."

"Stiles." Lydia's voice regains some of that strength he is more familiar with, "You know what this means. There's… there's going to be another… there's going to be a body."

Stiles frowns as he pulls his car door open and clambers in. He adjusts his phone to his other hand. "You want me to-- wait no, no I'm on it. Have you called the police yet?"

"You told me to call you first."

"And you're right. And I'm on my way. Like, sitting in my car and trying to work out how to drive and hold a phone and--" there is a muffled yelp as he drops his phone during his awkward attempts to balance it on his shoulder.

"Just--" he can barely hear Lydia from where the phone slides to the foot well, "Just get here soon. I'm heading south - the new housing developments."

Then the line goes quiet.

***

He finds Lydia exactly where she said. His method of searching involved drifting up and down streets like a creeper until he spotted Lydia. At least, he considers, she managed to pull on some clothes this time. Her hair looks wild, and un-brushed, but she still manages to look absolutely stunning, even without makeup on.

He parks the jeep and hops out to where she is shivering on the sidewalk.

"Have you found the DB yet?" he tries to be cheerful.

"The what?" she asks, looking pale.

Obviously his attempt to lighten to mood failed. "The DB. The dead body."

"The—" Lydia just stares at him. "It's over there." she points to a house in the middle of the row.

"How do you know?"

"Because I keep hearing a branch tapping on the window." Wordlessly she points at a tree that leans over until its branch scrapes along the window in a sound that sends chills up Stiles' spine.

He nods, gulping but yeah, that's as good a reason as any. "Have you - uh -tried the door?" he asks, starting up the path.

"Yeah, I'm going to knock on the house of a dead guy." Sarcasm isn't really Lydia's forte, but Stiles ignores that as he tries the door. It's locked. "Well we - uh-- No I got nothing," he says, throwing out one hand as if to say 'look at that, the door is locked.'

"For someone so clever you really don't think of the obvious," Lydia sighs, and after glancing around to check they are still unobserved at seven in the morning, she slips to one side of the building and speed-walks rapidly out of sight. In heels. That's impressive actually.

"New plan: back door." Stiles summarises, "That works too."

"Stiles!" Lydia calls and he darts after her.

The back door is thankfully unlocked, because Stiles doesn't really want to try breaking in if it involved lock-picking or Lydia and a hair clip and credit card. He pulls down his sleeves and gestures to Lydia to not touch anything because if she's right then this is a crime scene.

So they slip in quietly and unobtrusively and are almost immediately hit with the sense that something is wrong.

It looks like there has been some sort of struggle.  Yet at the same time some things look too normal: the slippers sit on the shoes wrack and the dirty dishes in the sink. Yet the kitchen drawers are open and from the contents that Stiles can see in them they've been rifled through as if pilfered from. A plate of uneaten food sits on the side and a mug of coffee sits untouched. A film sits on top of it. Lydia touches it with the back of her hand.

"It's cold."

Stiles moves through the house and the rest looks the same, if not worse. A bookshelf in the lounge is on its side, spilling it's content across the floor. The glass coffee table is smashed and shards are scattered everywhere. There is a long tear in the sofa and lumps of stuffing are falling out.

"I don't understand," Lydia looks around the destroyed living room, "It was here. I know it was."

"Maybe you were wrong?" Stiles whispers back, because this sort of atmosphere requires whispers.

"I'm not." Lydia shakes her head, "I'm never wrong."

There's a determination about her words that make Stiles look around again, striding back into the kitchen and then wondering why the door was unlocked.

He glances around again, convinced that he's missed something and that's when it jumps out at him.

The door was unlocked.

There are no shoes sitting by the backdoor. Instead a pair of slippers sit there alone.

"Lydia," he calls cautiously, pushing the door open again. There are paving stones immediately behind the back door, but if he walks a few more steps away from the house the paving stones curve around to one side back to the street.

The footprints however do not.

They continue straight out. Stiles follows the indentations in the ground with his eyes, trailing up until they are lost in the shadows the woods that borders the back of the house.

There is a click as the door closes behind him. "I don't really think I'm dressed for hiking," Lydia offers him a weak smile, "But I need to find this."

She's a banshee. The call to death must be like Coach Finstock's call to a lacrosse game. Stiles nods and he goes first, walking alongside the foot prints so as not to mar them. He's vaguely aware that they're leaving their trail own behind, but he reckons he could wing it with his dad that he and Lydia were just on a walk through the woods. Especially since everyone seems to think they're dating (Stiles doesn't know whether to be grateful or annoyed at Jethro for that).

They follow the trail for about ten minutes in a comfortable silence. The forest rises up and around, and the footsteps curl north with the town to their left.

After a bit Lydia grabs hold of his shirt, pulling him to a stop. "There," she whispers, and she strikes off at a tangent, her fingers uncoiling from his shirt as she steps forwards.

Stiles steps out from around her and then stops, drawing up short. He's heard about how people used to die from being hung, drawn and quartered, but he'd never thought that he'd see it.

The body - and it can't really be called a man anymore - hangs between two trees, pale and wraithlike. His arms are outstretched, and tied with ropes to the branches reaching their greedy hands towards him. He's bound, thick ropes wrapping around his limbs and spread-eagling him in the middle of the forest, like some sickly piece of art put out to dry.

A dark stain runs over his translucent lips, and deep cuts in the wrists are made from where barbed wire is buried in, and then runs around his body like a shroud over his shoulder and down the other arm.

"Shit." Leaves murmur as Stiles takes a step forwards, gaze transfixed to the body.

And he should have been expecting it really - he should have known that when a banshee finds a death she does only one thing.

She screams.

Stiles hears it but at the same time he doesn't. He's already detached, critically examining the body and mind numbingly wondering if he's going to faint anytime soon.

And gradually the sound dies and Lydia closes her mouth, letting her eyes close as she tries not to look.

There's still a weird buzzing noise in his ears. Stiles swats at his head to ward off the flies.

The sound just repeats. He waves his hands around and Lydia casts him a weird glance. "Isn't that your phone?" she asks, sounding normal for someone who just found a dead body in the woods hung between two trees like a sacrifice.

Stiles really needs to get that issue of his eligibility for virgin sacrifices sorted.

"I-uh-yeah…" he grabs the device in question which is vibrating in his pocket, "I guess it is - uh- wha- what? Scott?" he straightens as the alpha's anxious tones come through the speaker. He sounds like a worried mother hen.

_"Dude!? Where have you been? And have you seen Lydia?"_

"Been? What do you mean?" Stiles had sent him a text hadn't he? Then again his phone had been on the floor of his jeep so maybe-- "I told you - oh my--" he's an idiot for not even thinking of notifying the pack. "--you never listen do you--" he says, unsure whose fault it really is here, "Look - never mind just…" he's trying to focus, but Scott picks him up on this first.

_"Stiles - Tell me where you are."_

"Me and Lydia went body hunting." Stiles says, and for the first time wonders why its him there and not Scott or Allison or even Aiden. "There's another death. And let me tell you it’s…" he looks at the body and then for Lydia who is walking away into the woods. "It's not pretty."

He waits as Scott relays this news to whoever is around them.

"Dude are you skiving school?" Stiles asks, "You're skipping school again, aren't you?"

" _We_ are," Scott corrects, "Can you meet us at the loft?"

Stiles is currently trying to get out of what is probably going to be a crime scene pretty soon. Lydia has pulled out her phone and is talking into it and by the sounds of 'Sheriff Stilinski' she's on the line to his dad.

Oh god. His dad is going to kill him.

Almost anticipating his trail of thoughts Lydia shakes her head, "It's just me. And you can ring me in as an anonymous tip-off, right? Good." She doesn't give his dad any leeway, "Well then - I have school. Good day Sheriff." and she hangs up.

Stiles knows he's going to get a call and if grateful that he's still talking to Scott. "We're on our way there." he says.

"Did you call 999?" he can hear one of the British girls ask over the phone.

"Lydia called my dad," Stiles answers, because the phone is probably on speaker, "And it's 911," he corrects, staring at the wall.

"That's the second body this morning," he hears Allison say, "This is getting worse."

"Well I'll keep you posted," Stiles says, because he's either going to have to surrender his phone to Lydia or attempt to drive with it balanced on one shoulder. "We'll see you there."

"Where?" Scott sounds confused. "The loft?"

Sarcasm is his default answer, "No, we're heading to your little werewolf den in the middle of the forest."

"Dude," Scott grumbles, "I don't have a werewolf den."

Stiles raises his eyebrows in an 'oh really' look even though Scott can't see it, "Sure you do," he jokes, "It's where you keep your little werewolf oven."

There is a groan over the phone.

"Actually," Stiles adds, "We're heading over to the animal clinic. Who's willing to bet that Deaton wants to know about this?"

Scott agrees and the call ends. Stiles casts one more look at the body, almost awestruck by the care that went into this, to string up the human and then wrap the wire over his shoulders like a cloak. Then he tears his gaze away and stumbles backwards, thinking he's going to be sick.

He's lightheaded, dizzy. He looks around to see how Lydia is dealing but she is walking off to one side, her gaze distant and vacant. "Lydia?" he calls, "Lydia!"

She stops and glances at him. She doesn't need to speak, her face just crumples slightly and he moves across to her, about to ask what is wrong when he catches sight of it between the trees.

It takes his breath away, the sight of that great tree trunk. As soon as he sees it, it's the only thing he can see.

"No." he whispers, and he can't pull away, finds his feet drawing him closer and closer and--

"Stiles," Lydia rests a hand on his arm and she pulls him back, "Stop."

He draws up, as if Lydia's hand has anchored him to the ground. He looks at her in puzzlement. She has stopped and hasn't moved any closer.

"What is it?"

"The ground," and she is gazing down, "The ground. It's all dead. It's all dead Stiles."

And finally Stiles realises that the sickly sweet smell in the air is the scent of death. He glances down, and he spots the dead blackened plants. There is a circle of dead animals and birds, and the soil is blackened as if burned by a fire.

It circles around, and Stiles traces the rings that spreads outwards, like a patch of mould. Nothing living sits within the circle.

And in the middle, unobtrusive and yet eye-catching at the same time, sits the Nemeton.


	22. No Wings To Fly

"Kamael.”

Castiel’s voice is stiff. He sounds anything but happy to see the angels here. Dean wipes blood dripping from his nose and looks around at the four angels. Remiel glares back defiantly, blonde hair tucked behind one ear, while Elyon and Zophiel duck their heads, not meeting the blue gaze that pierces the room.

Dean meets his brother’s eyes. Sam’s one cheek is swollen with a rapidly darkening bruise from where Zophiel had punched him. He keeps blinking, and there is dried blood on the side of his head from where he hit the table sitting in the middle of the room. Dean thinks his little brother might have a concussion.

“What is this?” Castiel hisses, and he steps forwards, ignoring the blade in Remiel’s hands where she stands in front of him. “What are you _doing_?”

Kamael’s face twitches and the grin slides into an unpleasant sullen look. “Who are you to ask such a thing?” he says, and now it’s as if he’s treating Castiel like he’s something alien and strange. “Who are you to even call yourself an angel anymore?”

Dean’s face forms a wince at the low blow. It might just be him, but the temperature in the room feels colder as if Castiel is drawing all the heat into himself. He’s half expecting the lights to flicker and for wing shadows to flash, but with a pang, he remembers that the angel’s wings are little more that broken bones and burned feathers now.

“You think I wanted this?” Castiel replies, and his voice is lower than ever, “You think I wanted all of you down here amongst the humans?” he sounds scornful. “We manage to leave nothing but destruction behind us.”

“Uh--“ Sam clears his throat from where he kneels, “As tantalizing as this conversation is, can we end it? Soon.”

For a long moment Kamael and Castiel glare at each other and Dean thinks there is going to be some sort of fight.

Then Elyon sighs, “Let them go,” he says, “They don’t have it. Not anymore.”

With bitter eyes Remiel drops the blade pointed at Castiel’s chest and spins around in frustration to Kamael, “So this is it? We just leave? We _need_ the grail!”

“For what?” Dean exclaims, still sprawled by Sam, “It’s not going to get you back to Heaven!”

“How do you know?” Remiel exclaims passionately. “You don’t have a clue what we have planned. You don’t know the first thing about the grail and what it can do. You steal it from beneath our wings, sully it with your touch and then throw it away like some cheap trinket. Everything you two touch withers and dies. You kill each other just by being together and Castiel is not the angel any of us once knew.”

The words are harsh, but Dean’s not going to take anything an angel says seriously, “So are you going to leave now?” he asks, trying for impatient and ending up irritated.

“Leave.” Castiel repeats, “And let it be in peace.”

“Peace?” Kamael exclaims. His two silent followers just look uneasy, “You call what we live in peace? You _killed_ Bartholemew! Half of the faction has deserted us to trail after you! Who do you think you are? A leader? You’re barely an angel anymore with your stolen grace!”

“I didn’t ask for this!” Castiel steps forwards, hand making a slashing motion across his body in anger, “I didn’t ask for Metatron to use me. I didn’t ask for him to throw us out of Heaven. I didn’t ask for anybody to follow me.”

“Who would you ask?” Elyon sneers, his weight shifting, “God’s long gone. You just take what you want and call yourself God while doing it.”

Dean feels about as sick as Castiel looks at that reminder. His angel shakes his head, and the blow obviously hit home, “I’m not--I’m not God. I’m just trying to do what is right. I am _trying_ to get you back to Heaven. I am _trying_ to clear up the messes that we should be taking care of.” He shakes his head, “What are you doing?”

Elyon grinds his teeth and Dean uses the distraction to lever himself upright. Remiel glares at him, but she’s the only one to do so as he helps Sam up next to him.

“What are we doing?” Kamael tilts his head to one side, “Don’t you understand Castiel? After all this-- after Lucifer, after Raphael, we’re still at war. Nothing’s changed.”

“War against whom?” Dean asks, “Other factions?”

“Malachi,” Castiel growls, “You have the same goals. Why do you have to fight?”

The lead angel still looks confused. “Castiel - we are fighting for peace. We are fighting for Heaven. For our republic. Yet you still scorn our kind and turn your back on us. In favour of--“ he gestures at the brothers, “In favour of the humans for which you fall for once again.” He’s disgusted, but Castiel doesn’t seem to be affected by this.

“I have more things to worry about that your petty fighting," Castiel snarls, "Did you know that over the past months while you have been squabbling over a leader - five of the seals keeping the Fallen in Hell have been broken?"

"That's not true." Kamael looks shocked. Dean looks at Sam, frowning, because he’s not sure what Castiel means.

Then he does. “Belial,” he says, and it’s at the same time as Sam.

“Abaddon’s not raising demons,” Sam breathes, “She raising fallen angels.”

Remiel snorts, “Abaddon is dead.” She curls her lip in derision.

"Amitiel said the same thing," Dean snaps, "Then Abaddon killed her."

“Even so,” Remiel remarks airily, “The Fallen are all locked away. Their cages might not match the extravagance of Lucifer’s but they’re all locked tight, and the seals hidden.”

Sam scoffs, “Which is why when the blood of humans tainted by heaven and hell is spilled Belial just pops up out of nowhere,” he spits out. He’s shaking and it’s with anger, Dean realises. His little brother is pissed, because all his life he’s spent praying for divine intervention, only to find that the angels were all dicks.

And asides from Castiel, and maybe Anna at one point, potentially Gabriel, Balthazar and Samandriel, they all really were. The angels were just going to turn their heads and ignore what was happening under their noses.

“Abaddon and Belial aren’t going to do much good alone,” Zophiel notes, “Why are you telling us this? It’s nothing of interest to us.”

“No?” Castiel asks, stepping to the side to join Sam and Dean where they stand by the window together. “So it doesn’t worry you that three months ago Naamah was raised. Two months ago Belial. And a month ago Malphas. There might be others even.”

Had it really been two months since Sam had dug himself and Dean out of an early grave?

And a month ago - that would have put them with their attempts to stalk angels which had ended up with them accidently acquiring the grail and then losing it.

“There will be another one this month,” Castiel says, darkly, “Not that I expect you care.”

Kamael shakes his head, “You know us too well,” he retorts, and then glances to the side at Zophiel and Elyon, “We’re finished here.”

“But--“ Remiel protests but he silences her with a glare.

Usually Dean would expect the angels to vanish in a flapping noise, but now instead Kamael strides towards the door. Dean vaguely wonders where the banishing sigil sends them. He’d have drawn a banishing sigil now if it wasn’t for the fact Castiel would get caught in the backlash.

“In the future,” Remiel’s eyes settle on the brothers, “Stay out of our business.” She spins around with a flourish and follows her fellows out of the door. It hangs open, and after a moment Castiel steps towards it and closes the door, checking that the four are well and truly gone.

It clicks shut with a certain finality and Dean relaxes, a breath he didn’t know he had been holding being released.

“Cheerful bunch, aren’t they?” he manages a weak grin, but it falls short.

Sam glares at him.

Castiel just looks tired.

Dean knows how he feels.

***

“Are all the demons Abaddon is raising really fallen angels?” Sam asks. He has the names scrawled on a pad of paper and Dean looks over them.

There’s a date scrawled by each one in the order Castiel had listed them. Naamah for December. Belial for January (and that one at least they can confirm). Then Malphus for February and a big question mark for March and November, because they don’t know how long this has been going on, and they don’t know how many demons are out yet. There are only three they can confirm or guess at, and while it’s three in the right direction it’s still three too short.

“We should get Crowley on it,” Sam says, but it’s not much use because Dean has tried phoning the Hell King, but apparently he only answers when it suits him (or he wants to be a nuisance). Either that or he has some sort of weird ability to know what they’re going to ask.

Castiel sits at the table, elbows on his knees as he leans forwards, hands together and head slightly bowed. His trench coat pools around him as his eyes flicker up to where the brothers perch on their own beds respectively and then back down.

“We shouldn’t be sitting around and waiting for Crowley to do something,” Dean snaps, because after his last encounter with the Hell King who had practically dangled that goddamn blade over his head like a drug, he doesn’t think they can rely on Crowley for anything. “We should be finding out where the next demon is being raised from and get there and stop it.”

He sees that it is hopeless even as Castiel shakes his head, “There are too many locations that it could be happening.” He says, “Even if I did know where the seals are,” he adds, “Which I don’t - this is an impossible task.”

“So Abaddon is raising up fallen angels.” Sam sighs, “I means - that’s bad but at least they can die right? We managed to shoot Azazel in the head.”

“The demon killing knife won’t work,” Castiel says, “They’re not demons. But I think the angel blades should work.”

“They don’t work against Abaddon,” Dean grumbles, “What about the first blade?” he throws that out there.

Sam shoots him a sideways glance, “That would work,” he says, “If we had it.” And Sam always has to be the pessimistic one of the two of them.  Dean tries to ignore Castiel’s frown as he glances at Sam.

“Well it’s not like we have another Colt.” He points out.

“It’s all very well talking about killing the demons,” Sam says, “But we need to find them first.”

“It’s all very well finding them,” Dean grumbles, “If we can’t kill them.”

“It’s all very well,” Castiel interrupts stiffly, “Worrying about the fallen angels when you’ve forgotten the fact that there is one right here.”

He pulls the pamphlet from earlier out of his pocket. It’s crumpled, but still clear to see as he shoves it towards them. “Malphas.” He tells them, “That’s his seal. His sign.”

“So that means--“ Sam stumbles over his words, sounding excited. “That he’s here?” then his expression dims, “He’s the one who’s been killing babies.”

“Well it’s not angels,” Castiel says, in that same voice he had used when attempting to read the tablet for the first time. “I told you that much at least.” He also sounds like he’s making this up as he goes along.

Dean has no idea where he learnt that from. Honest.

 “Yeah, but it’s not exactly demons either, is it?” Dean protests, slightly grouchily. When Sam and Castiel turn to stare at him he tries to explain. “Well he’s not exactly a demon is he? He’s less than an angel but more than a demon.”

“Who wants to bet he has demon minions though?” Sam throws out there.

Dean sighs, “Always with the minions,” he runs a hand through his hair. “Well at least one thing is in our favour.” He says.

“What’s that?” Sam asks, frowning as if the whole idea of the world being in their favour is completely unfamiliar. Which in retrospect - it probably is.

The blonde waves about the pamphlet advertising jobs. “We know where he is.” He announces triumphantly. “And he doesn’t have a clue that we’re here. He probably thinks we’re still dead if Belial has been bragging enough.”

“Those demons we met in the museum probably ruined that.”

“Still. This demon is here. Now. Doing something with pregnant woman for some reason or other. We need to get in, find out what, and stop him.”

“How do you propose we do that?” Castiel asks, frowning.

“We’re going to break in. On Sunday.”

“Why not tomorrow?”

“Because--“ Dean splutters and tries to come up with a reason, “Everyone expects a midnight break in. Saturday and Fridays are for hooligans. We’re professionals.”

Sam snorts and it totally ruins the image he was trying to project to the angel.

“We get into the manor,” Dean continues, “And we poke around, steal valuable shit that’s useful to them, maybe see if there are prisoners--“ he looks up to see Sam nodding in approval.

“So how are we going to get in?” Castiel asks again, as if he doesn’t understand what Dean means.

“Oh Castiel.” Dean’s grin is predatory, “Allow me to introduce you to the art of breaking. And entering.” He finishes off triumphantly.

Sam’s head hits his hand with a smack but Dean ignores it. He is going to corrupt that poor angel. And he will take pride in every single step of doing so.

Currently though Castiel just looks like a deer in the headlights, but at least he doesn’t look disapproving or annoyed. Dean feels a warm glow and a satisfied smile sits on his lips.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Cas asks.

“No.” Sam is the one to shake his head. “But that doesn’t mean we aren’t going to try.”

***

“Lilith wasn’t a fallen was she?”

“She was the first corrupted human,” Castiel closes his eyes and sits on one of the beds. Sam and Dean are camped on the floor amongst the books Sam smuggled into Dean’s car and the stuff Dean and Cas managed to raid from the library along with a lot of print outs and a few Men of Letters files scattered in the mix.

“I guess that made her more powerful,” Dean hums, “Like--“ he doesn’t say the name, but the other two know who he means.

There are only two white-eyed demons that have been top-side recently.

But if their research is correct one more will soon be added to their numbers.

“Naamah is the crossroads queen,” Sam leans back, announcing. The file he holds is a Men of Letters file, which is good because the demon is obscure beyond a few vague stories. “She finds men guilty of envy and offers them greater pleasures.” Sam reads from the brown envelope, “A few mentions here that she was trained by Lilith, despite being an angel. One of the last angels to fall.”

“So she’s like - the mother of all crossroads demons?” Dean asks.

Castiel shakes his head. For all the knowledge he holds, there is still stuff he doesn’t know. “I don’t recognise the name,” he says. “But Belial is well-known. He was one of the biggest supporters of Lucifer, along with Abaddon.”

“But Abaddon was a Knight,” the file Dean has about Knights of Hell contains even less information that Sam’s folder. What can be found in it is crumpled from the multiple times they’ve scoured through it. “What’s the difference? Between a Knight and a Fallen Angel? Between a Knight whose a Fallen and a Knight whose a demon?”

“Differences in power,” Castiel says, “That’s why she can’t be killed easily. Then again lots of the Knights gained that immunity when they joined with Lucifer. He gave them corrupted grace to make them mockeries of the angels that the grace was taken from.”

The blonde hunter feels like that’s a whole other can of worms he doesn’t want to go into. It goes on his ‘don’t ask’ list right up there with the Nephilim wars and ‘why the hell did you go to Crowley over me?’. So he slams his diminutive file closed and reaches for one of the tomes. His fingers ache, and he wants nothing more than to skive the research onto Sam and Cas. The last time he did that was when Kevin was still around

So instead he keeps working.

“Dean, your phone is ringing.” Sam says an hour later. The younger brother is lying horizontal, elbows propping him up as he turns the pages of the tome he is currently flicking through much too fast.

Sam can’t read Latin that quickly. No matter how well he can recite his backward exorcisms. He can’t. It’s just not possible.

So Dean ignores that and listens for the faint noise that comes from where his jacket hangs up. With a groan he makes as if to stand but before he can even push himself up from where he is hunched over books - why don’t motels have more chairs dammit? - Castiel is already there, pulling something out of the jacket.

The angel frowns at it. “This isn’t a phone,” he says, with a note of suspicion in his voice.

Dean sighs, because it looks like he’s going to have to get up anyway. He stands slowly and moves over to look at what Castiel is holding.

It’s not his phone.

It’s the EMF meter.

The thing flashes and whines again as he approaches. Dean frowns at it. “Really?” he glances around. “Hey Cas - are there any ghosts around here?”

The angel actually looks and then stares at Dean as if this is some sort of test. “I can’t tell,” he says, warily, “I don’t have the right kind of ‘mojo’ for that.”

The angel still manages the quotation marks while holding the EMF metre. He’s even managed them in the right place. Dean would be impressed if he wasn’t worried about why the EMF kept going off.

He takes it from Cas and fiddles with the dial much like Sam had the day before. “You so owe me a new EMF,” he mutters, directing it towards Sam but where his younger brother, buried in sheaves of paper, doesn’t notice.

The machine whines, as if disagreeing with him. With a sigh he unclips the cover and slips the battery out. There - that should keep it quiet.

He really needs to get a new EMF, he thinks, as he tosses it on his bed and goes back to work.


	23. Go Back To Sleep

He's been awake for days. It shouldn't be possible for a human to last so long.

And it's true. The human soul doesn't. Chandler sits at the back of his mind constantly awake, constantly present. Even when the other soul isn't talking Luke can _feel_ him, like someone smothering him in an endless unwanted hug. Like a stranger snuggled up too close to him on a bench.

His werewolf metabolism makes sleeping pills useless. No matter how many he downs, it's like swallowing chalk. He considers dosing himself with wolfsbane, but the hallucinogenic side-effects aren't going to worth it in the long term.

He needs a different solution.

 _"This is a bad idea."  
_ "Shut up," he growls venomously at the voice.

He's a werewolf. He can last longer than a normal human without sleep, but even he can't go on forever.

It's been exactly 13 days three hours and 27 minutes since Luke woke up in his new body.

Normal humans can go seven days without sleep. At a push they can make it to eleven days before they die of exhaustion.

Luke knows he doesn't have much left in him. The back-of-the-mind voice ties him ton consciousness no matter how he tries. The few times he thinks he might actually be falling asleep he finds himself slipping and falling, as if his soul is just going to slip right out of the body. He feels the human soul grasp fruitlessly for control, and Luke just knows if he gives up he'll lose his grip and just keep falling.

This isn't his body, and he knows if he gives it up, he's not getting it back.

He feels a wash of guilt and squashes it down angrily. He stumbles across the apartment from one of his night time walks that are becoming a regular occurrence. He feels like he's drunk. The phone is warm from where he has been cradling it in his hands.

He sinks back and waits.

***

The door opens and she floats in like a breeze. He's startled out of his daze, lost in the passages of his own mind. Everything about his head is a lot more raw, a lot more open. There's nowhere to store information, and so it stores itself in his very soul. He can't lose it, no matter what he does.

He barely manages to focus on her wickedly curved figure as she strides in. The dress she wears is far too short and the boots she wears are far too high.

He doesn't care.

The demon tilts her head and examines his as he sways on the spot. "Well?" she sounds impatient, "What do you want?"

"You know." he accuses her.

"You phoned me," she replies mildly, and she runs her thumb over her nails as she takes step towards him, "How am I meant to know what runs through your head?" She looks up at him through half-lidded black eyes.

"You--" Luke splutters for a bit, "You did this to me!" he tries to sound angry but he doesn’t have the energy. It's more like a hoarse hissing noise. "You made me like--" he gestures at his body, "Like this!"

Naamah tilts her head, "You asked," she reminds him, "You wanted a new body - I found you a new body. That was our deal."

He backtracks, because as much as this has all gone wrong he doesn't want her to take the body away, "No, I know. It's just," he shakes his head, looking for some way around this. "There's another body in here," he says, "Another soul. The yellow-eyed demon messed up!"

"Is there?" She looked contrite, but not regretful, and she clicks her tongue at him, although whether in annoyance or something else he can't tell. All he can smell from her is the sick scent of brimstone and blood. "How unfortunate."

Luke stares at her in growing horror, "Well?" he demands. In the back of his mind  Chandler Brady laughs. "Are you going to fix it?"

"Can't." She looks almost regretful, "I'm not in Belial's league. We're different sorts me and him, him and I."

A sense of desperation shoots through him and in despair he falls to his knees, "I haven't slept," he gasps out, "I haven't slept since you left--"

"Oh honey," he voice is suddenly full of warmth, fake and flat, but he doesn't care. The concern in her words is the most concern anybody has shown him since (since Jethro had asked what was wrong back in January) he woke up. "I can't fix your souls," she says softly, "But if there is anything else I can do--"

"I can't--" his vision blurs, and it feels like he's going to be sick. If he loses this - if he slips away now - all that happens is that he sinks down into that nothingness forever. Maybe Chandler might be able to sleep then, or maybe Luke might just drag the other soul with him. "I need to sleep." he emphasises, "He's in here - all the time," he is wide-eyed, dishevelled and pleading. He should be ashamed, begging like this, but he's past the point of panic now. "Please," he begs.

She kneels next to him where he sprawls on his knees. One hand traces the jawline, stubble beneath her fingers. "Please what?" she prompts, silkily.

"I need to sleep," he begs, "I'll do anything!"

Her smiles is gently and warm. "I can fix that," she says gently, "I'll just need a little favour in return," she croons gently.

"Anything." he blinks, eyes blurring with tears. His eyelids feels so heavy, and he presses them closed and then opens them again. "Anything." he promises, voice shaking.

She reaches out and brushes a lock of hair from his sweaty forehead. Her fingers are soft and cool. They trail down his face and her palm cups his cheek. "Then sleep," she whispers, and her lips curl into a soft gently smile. It reminds him of his mother, and how she'd sit with him when he was ill with a warm bowl of soup to spoon feed him and a caring glint in her eyes.

His eyelids grow to heavy and they flutter closed. This time there is no falling sensation as his stomach plummets out from under him, there is no jolt and moment of confusion, there is no flashing of images and memories that make up his very soul.

There is just a gently black stream that embraces him like an old friend.

He sinks into it with open arms.

***

He wakes up.

He has no sense of how much time has passed. The curtains are drawn and he feels better than he has in weeks.

 _"She's still here. Or maybe she never left."_ He doesn't groan as the voice speaks in the back of his mind. Chandler - the guy is called Chandler. Not that it really matters to Luke, because that person has been reduced to nothing more than a whisper at the back of his mind.

He pushes himself up to see Naamah perched on the edge of the table, fingers dancing on the surface as she watches him. "Awake?" she asks, almost gently, "Are you feeling better?"

He nods, relaxing slightly, and for some reason he feels a strange sense of trust in the demon. It's twisted and misguided, he knows, but she's the one thing he has left to cling onto.

"You remember I mentioned a favour?" she asks, gently, "Tit for tat?"

He nods, words still escaping him.

"Here," she reaches out with one hand, fingers uncurling and he picks himself up, reaching forwards and taking the piece of paper within. He unfolds it with fingers that are almost clumsy compared to the demon's grace. There is an address scrawled on there.

"What do you want me to do?" he asks, voice shaky and he looks up at her.

She's still watching him with a slight smile to her lips. It's eerie, like a predator watching a mouse in it's grip before pouncing. "Go there." she says, "Break in. Be creative. Be clever. I know you can do it." her praise and flattery is flat and fake and Luke ignores that. "I need a book from there. The title is there." her one finger flicks towards the paper in his hands. "Can you do that for me?"

He finds himself nodding. He vaguely reminds himself that this demon can rip him apart with a thought (ripped his pack apart) but he still finds himself wanting to please her.

"Well go on then," she makes a shoo-ing gesture. "Find me when you're done." and now her smile is coy, "You know how."

He stands.

_"Bad idea," Brady murmurs, "Bad, bad idea. What are you? An idiot?"_

Luke steps towards the door, hand outstretched towards the button for the lift when it suddenly opens in front of him.

He startles backwards as a blonde man pushes through angrily, and the man's eyes flash a sickening yellow that makes his stomach roll. He catches a scent of sulphur and ash and fire as Belial pauses, eyes fixating upon Luke standing there. "You," he comments, idly. He sounds almost bored, "Still playing with your food, Naamah?"

She flashes black eyes and Luke jumps, because he hasn't seen her with them for so long now. Her smile is thin and condescending. "Well?" she asks, expectantly.

The other demon's mood changes so fast Luke is surprised he doesn't get whiplash. "We got it!" he crows, "The wanna-be alpha played fetch and dropped it off with Malphas already. S'aaaaall good."

"How about you quit it with the dog jokes?" the black-eyed demon sneers at the yellow-eyes, but he just laughs. "Luke, you should be going."  
It's the first time he's used her name, he realises with a jolt. He starts towards the still open lift.

"Run along now little dog," Belial sneers, flashing yellow eyes.

Luke does, lift door sliding closed behind him.

***

He drops the stolen book off with Naamah and she leaves.

Once again he's alone, with nothing more than a voice in his head.

And he still can't sleep. He knows his period of relaxation are over. The guy has so many morals. _"Don't break the window! You'll set off the alarm!" "You'll get me arrested! My family will never forgive me!"_ So many issues, and Luke wishes the guy would shut up.

He knows he's not going to be able to get to sleep again. But he'll work something out. He is prepared this time. He can overcome this, he needs not see the demon again. He doesn't want to see the demon again. It's dangerous, playing games with demons. This time, maybe, she was accepting. Quid pro quo. But next time?

He should be keeping his distance. Forget about her entirely.

At least not for another ten years.

***

But instead he's shattered eventually, exhausted and he can't sleep. His mind is in overdrive, thoughts and that _goddamn_ _voice_ saying what Luke already knows but doesn't want to admit.

_"We're going to have to find her again. You realise that's what she wants, right?"_

So he makes the call, promising himself and the voice that he'll demand she fixes it. That he'll find something else, stop talking to this demon that ruined his life.

"I can't make it." she croons over the phone and Luke almost collapses and weeps right there. "I've got a lot of stuff to do but…" she pauses, just long enough to peak Luke's curiosity. "Maybe if you help… I could get there quicker?"

Perhaps it's the way she said it, or maybe it's just the way Luke is near keeling over from exhaustion, but he agrees almost immediately.

There is a high rise down town. Luke creeps up to the fourth floor and turns one bolt on a door.

By the time he gets back to the apartment the demon is there, and sleep is waiting.

 _"The high rise burnt down."_ Chandler notes, days later when they wake up again. _"People are baffled as to why they didn't use the fire escape."_ His voice sounds glum now, but still ever present.

That's the day he looks into the mirror, Chandler whining in his head and he blinks, watching his eyes flare gold.

They light up, and he grips tightly, trying to hold onto what little control he has left of his life. Somewhere outside the full moon is beating down and he can feel it, beating, pulsing through his veins.

His eyes flare gold but then something twists…

And between one blink and the next he opens his eyes to find his reflection staring back at him with an electric blue gaze.

***

This is what his world has been reduced to. Endless waking hours, a sea of memories and blissful nothingness. A voice sharing it with him, and Luke's feeling less like 'I' and 'me' and more and more like 'we' and 'us'. It's disconcerting. It's terrifying and it's not what he signed up for.

This isn't existence. This is torture.

And if he gives up he knows he's just going to vanish. To fade away into nothing. If he gives up he'll be snuffed out like a candle.

Naamah smiles, lips crimson red and her eyes mars black and she holds out her hand with sweet promises and bitter lies.

He takes it.


	24. Fault Line

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so now stuff really starts to happen. And to be honest it just doesn't stop. Hope anyone still along for the ride is enjoying and I'd love to hear your thoughts and Ideas!

California has its fair share of earthquakes.

Beacon Hills is no exception. Sure it’s inland, but it still takes the brunt of the Pacific fault line when it decides to really shake things up.

***

It rains most of Saturday. Overhead the sky rumbles, thick with thunder.

The door to the loft crashes open and there are soggy footsteps as someone enters. Curled up on the sofa with a book Lexi tilts her head to one side and then back to her book.

"Who is it?" Jethro asks, yawning slightly.

She doesn't answer him, but soon enough he can tell anyway when the sodden form of the Sheriff's son troops in through the door, followed by Scott. Stiles' hair has lost any style it might have had and is now just sodden, plastered to his face. Scott at least has a hood pulled up, but then he shakes his head like a wet dog and send water droplets flying everywhere.

Nate appears behind the boys. "Morning," she says. Jethro wonders where the hell she's been this early, and in this weather too.

Outside lightning flashes.

"We've found no proof," Scott is saying, as he shrugs off his jacket. Stiles just trudges over to their investigation wall and picks up a red marker pen. He pulls the lid off and chews the end thoughtfully. "Deaton says the Nemeton doesn't just _cause_ bad stuff to happen on its own. Either something is using the power or someone is using it."

"I still say you've got a demon in town," Nate says, stalking over past Lexi to grab a towel from the table. She scrunches it into a ball, then aims it at Stiles head. "You’re mopping up," she tells him.

The towel falls short and Stilinski doesn't even notice it. "Well they chose the right weather for it," he mutters, as he draws a line between two of the victims.

Jethro feels uneasy calling them victims. Victims of what? They weren't murdered, except maybe the last one. What killed them? Who killed them? Why?

According to Deaton there is nothing ritualistic about the murders. The vet had seemed on edge, and had barely said five words to them before he was rushing out the door to treat a pregnant cat the other end of town. "Well he's dedicated to his job," Jethro had said, "I'll give him that much."

He'd also sent them into school for the day, despite the two dead bodies.

That brought the body count to five.

"The Nemeton is dead," Stiles muses, "It has no energy to be used. To be harnessed. But just enough to send some people the wrong side of crazy."

"You three included," Nate mumbles.

"But that body wasn't strung up by itself." Stiles shakes his head. "You’re saying demons. Scott is saying it could be anything but--"

"It rained before." Jethro comments suddenly. He doesn't know where this comes from - it's out of the blue and occurs to him just as thunder growls again. It's like a light bulb has clicked on over his head. He turns to Nate, "Before the full moon in January," he tells her, "It rained then - remember? Lightning and thunder and--"

"You're saying that's what? Demonic omens?" Lexi drops her book to join in the conversation.

"I'm not saying anything," Jethro shrugs, "It's just an awful coincidence and I don't believe in coincidence."

Stiles and Scott are staring at him.

"We still have no motive," the alpha breaks out, "Peter wants revenge. Gerard wants to be healed. Deucalion wants a super-pack. Jennifer wants revenge. They all have motives and this? What is this? A demon playing games?"

"A demon?" Nate repeats, "But the demon that set the hell hounds on you and the demon that murdered my Pack are different demons. You said the one had yellow-eyes? You thought he was a werewolf."

"Well the one that hurt us…" Lexi sits up slightly straighter, "For one it was a woman. Two; it had black eyes."

"What does Deaton say?" Stiles asks Scott.

The alpha shakes his head. "Deaton keeps having to leave to work."

"So he's standing you off?" Stiles spins around from his wall, voice emphatic, "Dude you make it sound like you're dating the guy. I know he’s your tether and all, being like a father to you but seriously… just ask him."

"He doesn't know anything. No more than we know which is jack shit," Scott shakes his head.

There's another flash of lightning.

"We're no closer than we were four weeks ago," Nate says. "All we've got is more bodies."

More bodies and a trail of breadcrumbs that is doing nothing but leading them around in circles.

***

It's the second full moon that has passed since her parents have died. The last one she and Lexi spent alone and fighting the shift hidden and avoiding the other pack.

This time her sister is eager to get out, to run free with this new pack that they have been accepted into.

Nate won't admit it but she wants the same thing. To let all her worries be left behind.

Maybe if she runs fast enough and far enough it might work.

But there's still that niggling feeling in the back of her mind.

Something is going to go wrong. Nothing ever stays good for long. The demons will not just turn their backs and leave them in this town to have a happy, peaceful life.

It's never that simple.

***

Scott's talking to his mom when it happens.

Or arguing might be a better term. That in itself is bad news. He and his mom never argue.

But she stands there and taps her foot, arms crossed and a crease across her forehead. "Why didn't you tell me?" she asks, and there is disapproval in her voice, "Scott, I don't want you sticking your head into any more murder investigations. Especially not with your father stationed here."

Scott doesn't think he's ever heard his mom use that tone of voice before. "But it's my _job_ ," he emphasises, trying to get the point across to her, "I'm the Alpha here."

"And that means what?" his mom says before he can continue, "That you have to try and put every problem on your shoulder?"

"That I have to try. Because someone has to."

"You're just like your dad, you know that?" Melissa sounds frustrated. "Thinking your jobs are so important. That it's more important than family." she shakes her head sadly, walking towards the kitchen.

Scott moves after her, and that's when the first tremor starts. The ground is yanked from beneath his feet and despite all his werewolf skills he still face plants onto the floor.

There is a gasp from his mom and then a clatter as a glass falls off the table. It lands on the ground and breaks as the steady rumble increases in his ears until it feels like the very earth is groaning.

Minor earthquakes occur regularly in California. Some of them are barely tremors that rattle the school desks while the day continues as if nothing has happened. Now: the shaking has barely started but the wolf part of Scott knows that this one is not minor.

It's big. Massive even.

Something crashes over upstairs and Scott can't get off the floor long enough to stand properly. Everything just continues to shudder and jump about and he somehow manages to roll forwards to join his mom under the kitchen table.

The lights above his head flicker and dance about as the power grids get hit.

"Are you okay?" he asks his mom, voice rising to a slight yell to be heard above the noise.

Something else falls over with a crash and it sets off several other ornaments falling. His mom ducks her head, waiting to answer. "Yeah!" she shouts, coughing on dust that falls from the roof plaster, "Just a quake," she hangs onto the table as the earth tries to throw them into a heap of flesh on the floor.

The ground groans again and the quaking subsides slightly. Scott's senses are still tingling, even though the ground is still and he can barely feel a faint tremor.

His mom looks up, "Do you think that's it?" she asks, relief in her voice.

Scott ducks out from under the table and stands. It's kind of peaceful now if you ignore the wail of car alarms on the street outside. He needs to phone the others, to check if they're okay, but the phones are going to be down. He pulls up the landline phone from where it has fallen off the pedestal and listens.

It's dead.

"I think so." he says cautiously, turning around.

He spoke too soon, and with a start he remembers a lesson someone gave him once about earthquakes. He thinks it was Stiles sometime in sixth grade.

Sometimes foreshocks precede the main quake.

The ground lurches as if in response.

***

Allison wakes to blackness, trying to remember what had happened.

She had been with Stiles, Isaac and Lydia. She knows that much.

They had been - shopping? She wasn't sure. Maybe they had been researching stuff. It's a bit of a blur to her as she tries to pull herself up. Her head hurts, and she thinks she might have a concussion.

There had been an earthquake. She remembers that much. One quake that had shaken the world up around them and then stilled.

They thought that had been it.

Evidently they were wrong because the next moment everything crashed down around them. Quite literally.

She stretches out, trying to see if anything is broken. Her eyes strain against the dark but she can't see anything.

Nothing feels broken. She presses a hand to her head and there is nothing wet, or sticky. So no blood, no swelling - that was good, right?

She pulls her phone from her pocket. The screen is cracked but the backlight still works when she clicks it on. It's dim, but compared to the blackness it's blinding and she shields her eyes, looking around.

Dust hangs in the air around her, and she thinks she can just about manage to stand. She's surrounded by rubble, the building she had been in had just collapsed around her. There's plaster over her, likely from the ceiling when it slid down. It sits at an angle, making her bend slightly as she stands. A broken wooden table leg sticks out of a mashed up pile of bricks.

She steps forwards, and glass crunches beneath her boots. She glances down; just as her phone backlight fades.

Nervously she clicks it on again, and this time the light flare doesn't dazzle her. Instead it illuminates a pale shape in the corner of the small space she's trapped it. A hand is flopped out to one side and empty eyes stare at her, lifeless.

It's a body.

A dead body.

She stifles a screams.

***

It comes back to her in a rush as she steps closer to the body. That had been why they were out here. That was probably why the house had collapsed around them.

Stiles had phoned her up, asking her to come with him and Lydia on another body hunt. He had been with the banshee researching at the loft when Lydia had begun hearing things. And when Stiles had phoned her asking for support, especially after last time, and especially considering Jethro thought there was another demon in town, she had agreed, even dragging Isaac along with her.

It also explains why the house had fallen so easily. It was old - your typical ghost haunted house. Neither Stiles nor Allison were really bothered by ghosts at this point, so it hadn't taken long to find the body in the living room.

Lydia and Stiles had been across the hall when Isaac had stumbled across the man. He was sprawled out across his living room floor, red staining his lips and his eyes closed.

She can see them now, pressed tightly together. Silver glints in the light, from where the wire can be seen. Most of it is bloody, and now looks rusted and old. The body should look peaceful, almost sleeping, but it doesn't. Not with the wire stiches across the eyes, closing them to the world. Not with the blood that runs down the face like train tracks, two red, bloody tear streaks.

This guy was dead because he had sewn his own eyes shut.

Allison can't stay here. At the moment dust and plaster is the only thing she can smell, but the guy has been dead for a while. She has to get out of here.

She opens her mouth, the air warm, "Isaac!" she calls out, "Stiles!" She waits to see if there is a reply, trying to remember where the others had been. At the first quake they had all ducked towards the stairs. Stuff had been cascading off shelves and crashing to the floor, adding to the cacophony of noise.

When it had stilled they had begun moving for the entrance, to get out of there. Unlike most of the housing in Beacon Hills, this house predated the stronger, more modern structures. It was frankly amazing that it was still standing.

They had been about half-way out when the second quake had struck.

"Stiles!" she calls, "Lydia!"

There is a crash from her right. Had the wall not been collapsed at that point, the entrance would be there.

"Lydia!" she calls.

"Allison?" is the reply, but it's masculine, and cuts off, coughing loudly.

"Stiles!" she moves towards the wall. "Stiles?"

"Yeah?" is the faint reply.

She moves her phone about, lighting up the barricade between her and Stiles. It looks like an upstairs wall has fallen almost completely through the floor and now stands, impassable, between them. She steps forwards to look closer, and trips over something.

The something groans and she jumps, phone light flashing down. "Isaac?" she asks, spotting the short, curly hair.

"Allison!" Stiles shouts again through the wall, "Are you okay? Are Isaac and Lydia with you?"

"Yes! Isaac's in here with me!" she ducks over to help him, grabbing his arm and pulling. "Lydia isn't!" she adds, and worry sits in her stomach like lead as she heaves the werewolf up.

The beta wrenches his arm out of her grip, startling her. When she meets his gaze his eyes are a bright, golden yellow and there is a low growl in his throat.

"Is he okay?" she barely hears Stiles, just hears another crash as he probably tries to manoeuvre the bits of shattered furniture everywhere, "I don't know where Lydia is…" he adds, desperately.

The werewolf's growl is like the thunder of the earthquake all over again. From wherever he is Stiles must hear it because there is silence, completely and utterly quiet, and then a curse as he frantically begins to move.

Because both of them remember what happened last time Isaac was stuck in a small space. And both of them know that Scott isn't here this time.

The space around her suddenly seems much warmer and far darker and smaller than before. The light on her phone pulses, almost warningly and Isaac's eyes catch the light, flaring.

She's stuck in a small confined space with a claustrophobic werewolf.

She wishes she could say this was a first for her.

***

Scott powers his bike down the street, the engine spluttering slightly as he slows to avoid the sixth blown fire hydrant in ten minutes.

His mom has raced off to the hospital, and he - he has to find his pack.

He doesn't know where to look and his phone isn't working. Too many people are calling their friends, their families, the phone lines are probably down - it's manic.

But Scott is an alpha werewolf, and so he follows his nose, heading instinctively towards the loft. His bike roars, and he barely manages to avoid the cars that sit strewn across the road. Most look normal, but a few are overturned. Slams of the road are cracked, and a water main had burst on one street, meaning he had to take a detour around it.

Finally he pulls up near the loft. He drags his helmet off his head and lets his bike fall onto the stand, he himself already several metres away and striding for the building.

It looks fine. It's well built with solid foundations, and as he approaches Nate and Lexi spill out of it.

"Nate!" he calls out, grabbing her as she staggers towards him. Both girls look pale and startled, hair dishevelled.

"Was that an earthquake?" Lexi asks, "I've never - the worst quake we had back home was when the chimney pots a few roof tiles fell off." She looks like she's in shock, but otherwise unhurt.

Nate steps back, "I need to - Jethro went out. And the others."

"What?" Scott looks around, "Who went out? Where? Where's Stiles? Allison? Where's Lydia?" He worries for the frailer members of his pack. Isaac can look after himself.

"They were in here researching," the female alpha shakes her head in confusion, "Then Lydia started hearing things." she's babbling, but Scott picks out the important bits, "They went off, called Allison and Isaac and went body hunting. That was over two hours ago."

"The phones aren't working," Lexi says, "I tried to call them--" she takes a heaving breath, and she's panicking. Scott crouches down and pulls her down with him so that she can feel the stable ground beneath him.

"Look at me," he orders. He isn't Lexi's alpha but she still listens. "Lexi, it's going to be okay. We're used to earthquakes here. This is California."

"But not--" Nate begins to hiss, and then stops herself, biting her own tongue. She stands legs slightly apart, as if bracing herself for the aftershocks that are soon to come. Her gaze wonders around, and apart from being in a bit more disarray that usual, the street looks otherwise normal.

Except there is someone standing at the far end. And Nate stares at the figure - a girl - and she stops breathing.

"Nate?" Scott asks, standing slowly and pulling Lexi up with him. "Who's that?" he asks.

"No," Nate frowns, stepping around him towards the person, "It can't be. He--"

"That looks like a girl," Scott says, pacing after her as they walk down the street towards the figure. She's of medium build with blonde hair that is messy and sticks out at all directions. Her eyes are heavy with make-up and she's definitely a girl.

Lexi gasps out as if it's painful. "Luke." she whispers. "That's Luke."


	25. Holding Hands While The World Comes Tumbling Down

"Isaac," Allison begins carefully. She crouches, trying to make herself seem smaller and less threatening. "Isaac it's me. Allison." Her voice is low, as if she is speaking to a wild animal.

She sees the yellow flare and then dim slightly, "Allison?" his voice is a mix between a whine and a growl. Isaac's breathing is far too fast, and she can tell he is freaking out but he isn't quite past reason just yet.

He shakes his head and his hand trembles. "Try to slow your breathing," she tells him, "Slow it down. Count. One. Two."

"I-I can't." he swallows, and he keeps glancing around, as if the walls are closing in on him, "I can't!" he says, weakly, "I can't, I can't, I--"

"You can," she's an Argent female, so she does what she is trained to do. "You can and you will. Now breathe."

She takes a risk then, and presses one hand to his chest so that she can feel his heart pumping wildly underneath it. She meets his gaze squarely and begins exaggerated breathing for him to follow. He’s her tether but she can be his too, just like Stiles and Lydia, supporting each other.

At first she thinks it isn't working. But then his eyes flicker closed and she can hear him mouthing numbers, and slowly, his heart rate slows.

There is a crash and a curse from wherever Stiles is. Isaac laughs, and it's slightly hysterical.

When his eyes open again they are blue, and his breathing is carefully controlled to match hers. "Are you okay?" he asks.

She nods, "Just banged up," she says, "I'm fine. Are you fine?"

"Yeah."

"Well if he's fine and you're fine, I'm fine too!" Stiles shouts through the wall, "Now can we work on getting out!"

Allison threads the fingers of her right hand through Isaac's, her other still over his heart. She shares a small smile with him. "Yeah." she says. "That sounds good."

***

"Who is that?" Scott sounds confused. Lexi's mouth hangs open a little as the figure begins strolling towards them, arms hanging at her side. "Is that your friend? The one the demon took?" his fingers curl around her arm as he half stands in front of her, staring at the figure.

It's Luke.

But at the same time it isn't. Luke would never dress up like that. The girl wears heavy eyeliner, and a pale lipstick that shines in the light. Her clothes aren't baggy, but tight fitting, low cut and clinging to her body.

She walks towards them, back straight and head held high, staring at them. Despite her weaving motion and the slight swing to her step as she almost skips along the cracks in the road, it is clear she's heading straight for them.

As she approaches the wind blows her words towards them. All three werewolves can hear them, a sing-song tune that rises and falls as she dances towards them.

"Mary, Mary quite contrary how do your murders go? With silver knives and humans lives, and little dead girls in a row." She turns, skipping up along a crack towards them. "Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow? With old tombstones and picked clean bones, prettily all in a row."

It's not Luke.

Nate has been walking forwards, as if to meet the figure, but now her sister stumbles to a stop. "No." she whispers. "No."

The girl stops about five metres from them, lowering her gaze. She looks up at them through long lashes and flutters them a little.

And when she does her eyes flash a vivid green.

"You’re a demon." Scott moves forwards to stand besides Nate, body posture defensive and wary. He lets his own eyes flare red and his fangs prick through. "Who are you?"

"They call me Dantalion," the girl smirks.

"Luke--" Lexi mumbles, "That's--" she stops, shifting uneasily. Demons can't possess werewolves. Which means Luke is de--

"I'm afraid Lucy isn't here anymore," the girl's head tilts to one side and she taps the side of her head, "The body's empty. He's left you pups far behind to find his own way without you holding him back!" she sounds gleeful.

Scott growls low in his throat. It's a warning, telling the demon to get out.

He even says as much. "Get out," he steps forwards, his claws flashing out. "Get out of my town."

"Your town?" the girl croons, "This isn't your town. This is ours. And we're taking it back." It's a deadly promise. "What are you going to do about it?" she gestures at the broken fire hydrant, at the dust hanging in the air, "It's already lost, Scott." he tenses at his name, "What can you do to save it? What do you honestly think you can do?"

"I'm going to rip you apart," Scott replies, voice even.

Dantalion laughs, her voice clear like a bell, "It's so sad." the demon girl says, stepping daintily over a crack in the tarmac, "I mean… Even now, when you're so outnumbered, you still try to fight. But they're all going to die, Scott. Your mommy will die. Stiles is gonna' die. I'll rip out their throats and feast on their hearts." Her words grow cold. Lexi shivers.

"What do you want?" Scott challenges, "What are you doing here?"

The demon grins, the green and black eyes swirling sickeningly. "I'm here…" she savours the words, "Because it's my first time topside in a long, loooong time." she grins, "I wanted to have some fun. To tear the ground apart until its bloody and dead. Red meat, dead meat, something to sink your teeth into, right to the bone. Then I hang around and listen as the whole world chokes, chokes, choking on the screams of the dead." She sounds like a little girl, telling a story.

"You started the earthquake," Nate whispers, "You did this."

"I'm a good girl, aren't I?" Dantalion cocks her head, and she blinks away the black and green until her eyes are Luke's usual clear blue. She smiles simpering at them. "Distracted you all good."

The alpha stiffens. "Distracted?" he asks, "Then what were the murders about?"

"Murders?" she pretends to look confused, "Oh that isn't us." Lexi shivers at the word 'us' but remains where she is, standing behind Scott even though all her instincts scream at her to run. The demon shrugs, "I swear," one hand crosses her heart, "God's honour. Or you know…" she flashes teeth, "Whatever."

Scott growls. "If you stay here, we will stop you," he vows. "Whatever you're planning we'll stop."

It's disturbing as Luke's body widens her eyes as if hurt, "What makes you think you can stop us? What makes you think you even have a chance?" Luke's voice lilts into confident mocking. It's twisted and sick and even though Lexi knows there is a demon there it doesn't help matters.

Scott however doesn't know Luke. He isn't unnerved by the body, just by the demon with her sulphur smell and the scent of fire. "Because we've faced worse than you," Scott says, suddenly confident and strong. "And we win. We always win. Why should you be any different? You're just another supernatural psycho who soon enough will be a thing of the past."

"Then you better hurry." Dantalion seems unbothered by his threat. "I am after all - just a distraction." she hums considering, "I wonder how your little friends are doing?"

Nate has finally had enough and she lunges forwards with a snarl and red eyes for the demon. Her sister misses, but not because the demon has ducked or moved out of the way but because she's simply not there anymore.

***

Lydia can't really say when exactly she was grabbed.

Only that out of the four of them, she was the only one who had made it out of the house when the second quake hit. Behind her she sees Stiles stumble over in the entrance hall, while Isaac and Allison are still in the living room.

It's like it all happens in slow motion, the whole building shifting with the earth and collapsing inwards. It's like the deck of cards Stiles had built into a house and Jethro had been allowed to blow down at the end. Everything goes from standing in line to lying flat, as if blown over.

Then I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house down, said the Big Bad Wolf, and Lydia wants to laugh at the irony of that sentence.

She on the ground herself, trying to cling to something as the world crashes down around her. She clenches her eyes closed and tries to hang on to something. She's curled up so tightly that she barely notices when it stops, that the only reason the world is still shaking is because she's shivering from fear.

Not for herself. For her friends. Her pack, still trapped in the house.

Later on she will realise that she should have been worried about herself. But to be honest it came out of nowhere.

Strong hands clamp down on her shoulders, and one wraps over her mouth.

She startles, and her first instinct is to scream.

She can't. The hand blocks off her mouth and nose, choking her.

Her second instinct is to bite down on the hand. She does so, and there is a cursed snarl, but the hand doesn't move.

She bites down harder but it doesn't do anything.

The person yanks her up and backwards and she stumbles. The person - male - definitely male - seems unbothered by the bite, and beneath her teeth the skin seems unresponsive.

It's healed already, she realises.

The guy is a werewolf.

She barely has time to process this information than she is thrown sideways into a van.

How original.

The doors slam closed and the last thing she can see is a cloud of dust and rubble before it shuts with a resounding finality.

"Why, _hello_ there," a female voice purrs.

She turns slowly, and there's another girl there - about seventeen or so with rough blonde hair and a dark smile on her lips.

There's something wrong with her face, and Lydia examines the girl critically, before finally settling on the eyes.

There is no pupil. No whites around the outside.

They are just swimming pools of black, shot through with streak of a brilliant, moss green that swirls like a dark, hypnotising vortex.

And Lydia's trapped. She's trapped, her friends might be dead, and she's just been kidnapped.

She finally opens her mouth for her banshee wail.

"Oh scream all you want, pretty," the green-eyed girl smirks, "Nobody is going to hear you."

***

For the fifth time Stiles trips as he tries to pull rubble away. If only he had werewolf strength this would have been easy.

His wrist twinges in pain. He thinks he's sprained it. He also thinks he's got a busted rib, but he can't really see clearly. There is a speck of light coming from somewhere, but he hasn't yet managed to work out where. It's all he can do to locate the best place to try and get out and to begin digging away.

He has no idea if it's a good idea or not. Any and all lessons he's had about being stuck in this situation have flown out of his head. He needs some Adderall, to calm him down and keep him focussed, but it's he left in the Allison's car (she had refused to take his jeep).

His hands are raw, and they're probably going to start bleeding soon. He takes off his shirt, because it's hot in the small confined space and it's probably wrecked anyway. He wraps it over his hands like gloves and keeps working.

Allison and Isaac keep up a running commentary from where they are trapped. He knows it's for his benefit, because he's alone while they are at least together.

They have the dead body in there with them though, so Stiles thinks he got the better end of that deal.

He doesn't notice his phone vibrating at first. To be honest he's more worried about not succeeding in getting out (which is stupid, there's a werewolf next hole over who is super strong), but its still something to panic over. He's also mentally trying to work out how bad the quake was on the Richter Scale. It's definitely over 6, but he doesn't think it was as bad as 7. Not that he really knows, because Beacon Hills has never had an earthquake up to 7 on the Richter Scale. This one is probably the worst one they've ever had.

And he's willing to bet a lot of money that it's something supernatural.

He sighs, and wipes some dirt from his face, only succeeding in smudging it further. His hair is full of dust and plastered to his forehead with sweat and he probably looks a mess. That is the only thing he misses about the buzz-cut, that his hair was easier to keep in line.

His phone makes a whining noise in his pocket and he pauses, taking longer than it should to realise what it is.

And because really - he can get a signal in here? Really?

He pulls out his phone and sees the name slumps slightly in relief.

"Lydia?" he asks, "Oh thank god you're okay," he garbles, all in one breath.

"Stiles?" There's something wrong. Her voice is weak and trembling. He tenses.

"Lydia?" he asks, "Are you okay? Where are you buried?"

"I don't - I'm fine but - Stiles I've been… Someone grabbed me and now I don't know where I am. I don't know…" she is violently cut off.

"Lydia!" Stiles voice is panicked.

A new voice can be heard on the line. Smooth and feminine, "I'm sorry," she chirps. "But your friend is coming with us." Stiles hand clenches into a fist, and he wants to shout at this person. Who are they? Who the hell wants to kidnap Lydia?

And why now? She's just Lydia. She's just their resident banshee.

Who keeps finding the dead bodies.

He knows instinctively that the voice is that of a demon.

"Who knows?" she croons over the line, "Maybe if you're good you'll see your little banshee girlfriend again."

"Give her back," he growls out.

The voice laughs, "Not a chance. Now you lovebirds say goodbye." there is a pause as she presumably holds the phone out, because Stiles hears Lydia's voice.

"Stiles don't worry - I'll be fine - just tell Scott that--" whatever she had been about to say is cut off when the line goes dead. Stiles has no chance to say anything, the words sitting like a brick weight on his tongue as he is left in silence, alone, and still trapped under the rubble.

***

They find Jethro at the hospital.

He's not badly dinged up, and Melissa is seeing to him, if only to avoid the problems with the insurance again.

Nate and Lexi fuss over their friend, while Scott looks around. The hospital is well built, and the only sign there was an earthquake is that anything on bookshelves or countertops have all slid off. A few glass windows are broken, but otherwise the place is structurally sound.

It kind of has to be, being a hospital and all that.

Lexi doesn't appear to like the hospital, and she keeps casting uneasy glances around her.

"What's wrong?" Scott asks, weakly. He's been trying to phone Stiles or Allison, but he can't get a signal.

"I don't like this place," the young beta says, her eyes flashing gold, showing her unease. "It's just - I never get sick. Werewolves don't get sick. So I never had to be at a hospital before Jethro ended up in one." she shivers, "I had a bad dream about it," she adds in, "This place. It's all the flashing lights - I think." She frowns, seeming uncertain.

"Well there's nothing wrong with this hospital," Scott tries to smile, "My mom works here - it's all normal - right mom?"

"Shh," Melissa is focussed on stitching up a cut on Jethro's arm from where a piece of glass had cut him, "I'm working," she says, and again Scott gets the horrible feeling of being thrown off balance by his own mother. It's something in the tone of her voice as she dismisses him, without even appearing to acknowledge his existence.

"Call the twins," Scott tells Jethro, "As soon as your phone works call the twins."

"The twins?" Jethro looks alarmed. Scott doesn't blame him really. The twins are still in town but they're not in school anymore, so their interactions with Ethan and Aidan are limited.

"Just call them." Scott growls, "They're pack too. Sort of." he adds weakly. He needs them to be on his side in this. Derek would be useful too if he hadn't run off to South America with Cora. And he's not going to try and find out where Peter is hiding, which leaves only the twins as back up.

Jethro doesn't look impressed.

"While they're at Beacon Hills they're my responsibility," Scott growls, patience running short. "Call them." He turns away, "I need to find the others," he says over his shoulder to the group, but his mom isn't listening. Nate however nods.

"I'll come with you." she says. "Lexi stay here."

Lexi looks alarmed. Scott feels a wave of sympathy for her, "She can come with," he says, including her. The thirteen year old doesn't want to be in this place longer than she has to.

Nate glares at him for overriding her orders but he ignores her. He has more important things to worry about.

He has a pack to locate.

***

The light breaking through into his prison feels like a breath of fresh air.

His phone no longer works. The signal is down, and whatever the demon did to manipulate Lydia into calling isn't working anymore. Stiles has been sitting here, occasionally digging, but more often than not sitting through the aftershocks and shouting to Allison and Isaac.

Finally one of the aftershocks shake something loose, and he goes for the gap. It's too small, but he somehow manages to get through. His broken rib screams in protest, and the wrist of his left hand is all but useless, but suddenly he's gasping fresh air.

He's out.

Lydia's still gone.

He scrambles away from the roof that sits on top of the rubble pile, moving like an automaton around to where the sound of Isaac punching at debris can be heard.

Stiles wonders if the werewolf is actually trying to punch his way out of the rubble, but then has no time to wonder because with a loud crash something dislodges and a cloud of dust flies into the air.

The sound of coughing can be heard. Stiles tucks his left hand into his side, presses his right hand over his mouth and eyes squinting, he walks towards the dust cloud.

In a tangle of limbs Allison and Isaac stumble out. The werewolf's eyes are golden but other than that he looks human. Allison looks un-mauled, and what she had said about Isaac calming down was obviously correct.

Her face is creased with tears. Stiles had told them about Lydia. Both look shocked, coated in dust until he can barely see their skin colour properly, and pressing against each other for comfort.

"Well that's a story to tell the grandkids," Isaac says weakly, and Stiles just glares because really? Wrong time Isaac.

"We need to find Scott," Allison says, and she attempts to move towards her car which is sitting undamaged on the street. There is a telephone pole that has fallen over, only to be caught on a nearby lamppost and the two posts strain against each other, creaking. "We need to find Scott," Allison repeats, "We need to--" she's as lost as Stiles is, and he sees the desperation in her eyes.

"We need to go to the hospital," Isaac says firmly, and he's looking at Stiles when he says that, "Get you two checked out that you don't have a concussion, anything broken. Then we find Scott and the others."

"But Lydia--" Stiles protests.

"There is nothing we can do for her now." Isaac shakes his head, "I'm sorry. But she's gone."

The hollow pit in Stiles' stomach just grows larger. He feels sick.

"I'm driving," Isaac says.

Neither Allison nor Stiles have the strength to argue.

***

The town is pretty much still standing.

Which is a relief.

There's been a lot of damage. The old house that Allison had been in with Isaac and Stiles is not the only old house to fall down. Electrical fires have sprung out in several other homes, and water mains are pooling out everywhere.

Allison feels like she's lost something, some limb or something.

Lydia's been kidnapped.

It's a blow to their heart. To their pack.

Stiles is taking the disappearance badly. Allison thinks it is because Stiles was the last person to talk to Lydia, and because of that he should have been able to save her.

They still need to tell Scott. Allison dreads that conversation.

Isaac pulls in at what seems like the only free car parking spot outside the hospital. People are milling everywhere, some crying. Allison has barely clambered out of the car, feeling numb, than there is a shout and footsteps run over to her.

It's Lexi. "Are you guys okay?" she asks, eyes almost comically wide, "We were just coming out to look for you!"

Scott and Nate skid up, just as Isaac says, "We're all fine. Stiles broke a rib. I think Allison has a concussion." He stops, because the next person in the list is Lydia.

And Lydia is gone.

The other three wolves can tell them. Allison's sure it's obvious, but she's not sure if it is Stiles' dejected posture, the lack of a familiar haughty tone or the way they mill about like lost sheep that tells them that.

"Where's Lydia?" Scott asks. "Guys - wasn't she with you?"

"The demon took her," Allison lets Stiles say it. He's the only one that has any right to. "The demon took her. We were all buried under rubble and she - she got taken. It phoned me to tell me that."

"What?" Nate whispers, eyes wide, "What do you mean 'taken'?"

Allison can't bear to look at anyone in the eye, because she thinks if she does she might just collapse and begin crying right there and then.

"Lydia's gone." Stiles says, "She's been kidnapped."


	26. Tie Me Up (I've Had Enough)

Its early Monday morning when they break in. The intention had been to break in on a Sunday, since people always lie in on a Sunday, or go to Church or some shit like that. Not that Dean thinks demons make a habit of attending church, but break ins are still expected at night and not morning.

Either way they had delayed their plans for a day when another body had turned up. It had actually been a wasted investment when this body had showed nothing more than the previous. The only difference had been that this woman had been only five months pregnant, yet the foetus had still been missing.

The Impala is parked down the road, and the three of them now stand outside the fence, hidden in the shadows.

The brothers are both wearing dark shirts. They couldn't be bothered to make much of an effort beyond their usual jeans, but it's still dim enough to not really matter. Even Castiel isn't wearing his usual trench coat. He'd lost it and just has on his dark suit - it makes him look like a generic angel, and Dean never quite realised how much he misses that damn coat until he wasn't wearing it anymore.

Dean lets out a low whistle as he examines the building, "Fancy place," he notes.

"It makes sense," Castiel eyes up the elaborate mansion, "Malphas is the embodiment of gluttony."

"So what? He builds the most extravagant house that money can buy with high towers - basically a giant fortress." Next to him, Sam examines the architecture that rises up. The fence runs around it in a wide perimeter, and then vanishes as the grounds extend out behind it, sprawling on the hillside. If Castiel is right about the demon's lust for worthless items of value, Sam wouldn't be surprised to find a lake out the back.

"Okay," Dean turns his attention to the gate, "I'm going first." He takes a second to check the gloves are pulled on and then grabs hold of the top part of the gate. He pulls himself up and over in one swift movement, avoiding the spikes along the top and dropping silently down on the other side.

Dean isn't sure why they need gloves. It is unlikely that the demons are going to get the FBI involved but on the off chance they did, neither brother wanted their prints in the database, or themselves on the most wanted list (again).

Castiel drops next to him a minute later and then Sam.

"Come on," Sam heads towards the side-door they had planned on using, keeping to the shadows as he makes his way across the lawn.

It's still dark at six o'clock in the morning. Any later and they'd be seen, and they needed the darkness as their friend.

"You two are very good at this," Castiel notes as they prepare to deactivate the alarm.

Sam holds the electronic panel that controls the gate while Dean unscrews it. He catches the screws as they fall out, and Sam slowly pulls the panel backwards, revealing a complexity of wires.

"Yeah, well we wanted to have a backup profession in case the hunting fell through." Dean hums as he works.

It takes less than a minute to locate the correct wire and disconnect it, deactivating the alarm.

The angel is looking at the brothers with a disapproving frown, "I'd advise against that," he says, "The risks of getting caught are just as high as the risks of death are from hunting--"

"Thank you, Cas." Sam grabs the angel and tugs him inside to stop him sprouting off facts.

The house is quiet with all the usual emptiness of the early morning. There aren't even demon guards stalking around.

"Are you sure this guy isn't pride?" Dean asks, "To think that he won't be attacked?"

Castiel pushes to the front, and begins to navigate the mansion. It's elaborate, too fancy. Every faucet and surface just gleams wealth and power.

The trio navigate around to an entrance hall of sorts, with the front door to their right and a staircase leading up to an upper balcony on their left.

Castiel is first through, still silent and looking around, ready for trouble. He's barely set a foot into the room than something on the wall flashes white. Dean's head turns, catching sight of the twisted sigil that's burnt into the woodwork, just as flames rush up around the angel.

The fire pools around him like liquid water. There is a taunting male voice from the direction of the top of the stairs.

"Well what have we caught here? Looks like a little bird's caught in the fire."

***

When the flames rush up in front of them Sam knows that his brother's first instinct is to break it. So he grabs onto Dean's jacket and shoulders, wrestling him backwards, just as the voice speaks. He drags Dean backwards down the hallways, and around a sharp corner. Grabbing his brother's arm Sam spins Dean and presses him flat to the wall so that his older brother can see him as he presses a finger to his lips.

Silence. It's their friend as much as it is their enemy. They can hear the creak as the demon moves down the stairs.

It's not Malphas. Sam doesn't know whether to be annoyed or relieved at that, but either way he recognises the voice. Taunting and cocky, with just a touch of glee, he'd know it anywhere, even if he hadn't seen the yellow eyes and gleeful grin just before he dragged Dean out of sight.

Dean looks torn, as if he wants to be back there to rescue Cas.

"Don't," he hisses, and Dean gulps.

"But we have to--"

Belial's voice drifts around to them, "I knew there were feathered bastards still around but this--? This is a surprise, Castiel."

"Belial." Castiel's voice is almost a growl.

" _Sam_ ," Dean hisses, eyes wide. He's worried for Cas, and Sam is too but they have to prioritise here.

"He's a distraction," the younger Winchester whispers. "He can handle himself."

He meets his brother's panicked gaze and he knows his own worry is evident.

"But--" Dean stops and closes his eyes, "He's a fallen angel," he whispers, green eyes opening, "What if he can kill Cas?" He makes an abortive movement to push Sam off him and one of them knocks an elbow into the wall with a dull wooden thump.

Both of them freeze. The angel and demon are silent around the corner, and then the footsteps start up as one of them - probably the fallen angel - step forwards.

Sam almost slumps in relief when there is a loud bark from outside. Belial tilts his head to one side, gazing past Castiel to the front door, almost as if he stares hard enough he might be able to see through it.

Around the corner the brothers hold their breath.

The yellow-eyes snorts and spins around with a flourish. The dog barks once more and then it stops, suddenly and abruptly with a painful howl that tapers off.

Sam meets Dean’s gaze wordlessly.

"So where are your angel friends?" Belial continues to taunt the trapped angel, ignoring the distraction, "I mean the sigil activated because _you're_ here, with your pretty sparkling _pure_ grace." he sneers the word, "But is it just you or are there more?"

"It is - just me. I was - the murders of the pregnant woman--"

"Of course," the demon sneers, "Malphas was clumsy. Careless. As if _I_ should be such a fool."

Sam wondered if this made Belial the embodiment of pride.

"He's given us a chance," Sam repeats, "We need to go Dean. Now, before Malphas shows up."

"You realise this means he's still in the house somewhere, right?" Dean asks as Sam steps away. Thankfully Dean doesn't try to do anything stupid and Sam gives him a gentle shove down the corridor, "We've got two Fallen in here. And at least one of them is psychotic."

"Well that's reassuring."

***

They head upstairs, taking a winding staircase near the back of the mansion. The steps creak and Dean keeps pressed to the outside of the stairwell to try and avoid that.

The corridor on the upper floor is the same as the one downstairs. It's long, with wooden panelling and several doors at intermittent points along the corridor. Sam stalks down it first, foot over foot as he moves cautiously forwards. Dean follows behind, making regularly checks over his shoulder.

"What happens if we find nothing?" Dean asks, "No signs of dead babies. Just demons and fallen angels. What then?"

"Then--" Sam pauses to think, "Then we rescue Cas and get out. Then we leave Crowley a dozen voicemails - because we need to kill these suckers. Or trap them."

"I don't think exorcising them is going to do any good," Dean argues back.

"But maybe--"

A noise starts up out of nowhere, interrupting their debate. When the sound begins both brothers jump violently. Sam lunges for his knife and Dean spins around before realising that the noise is nothing more than a buzzing whine from his pocket.

He pulls out the cause of the noise in question Sam shoots him a glare. Dean curses.

"You brought the _EMF_ _metre_?" Sam hisses between clenched teeth.

"Not intentionally!" Dean hisses back, "It was in my jacket because I needed to buy a new one because _someone_ sat on it!"

"Oh my god, can you let that go already?"

The device whines and frantically Dean tries to click it off.

It falls silent and both brothers let out a sigh of relief.

In the distance there is the sound of footsteps.

Alarmed, it is Dean this time that shovels Sam out of the way, opening the nearest door and pushing both himself and his brother into it. After the experience of being buried alive it's amazing that neither brother suffer from severe claustrophobia, but admittedly they had faced worse.

The room they end up in is not a room as it turns out, but a closet filled with suits hanging full length. Dean wrinkles his nose in distaste but presses his lips together to refrain from making a snarky comment. Next to him Sam stumbles slightly and Dean grabs hold of his little brother's arm before Sam can tumble over.

The footsteps are approaching, along with the sound of voices. It's hard to hear what is being said, because the words are muffled by the wooden door between them, but Dean is grateful for the barricade.

"And now what - she's not going to talk - you know that?"

"We can get her to talk."

"She'll scream before that."

The voices are faint, barely audible, and curious Dean presses one ear to the door to try and hear clearer. There are two voices, one a low, smooth drawl and the other a hoarse well-spoken male, who sounds like a dangerous version of Crowley. (Dean thinks the demon would be insulted by that so he makes a mental note to tell him that the next time he shows his face.)

The conversation drifts quieter and then there is an angry snarl.

"You said I would be alpha!" the smooth voice is almost a snarl, and Dean can almost hear the sound of spit flying. There is an edge of madness to the voice who if Dean is being honest, sounds a bit deranged.

"And you will-- just-- _relaaaax_. Let us handle this."

"I got you the cup. I got you the _banshee_. Now it's time to hold up _your_ end."

"You'll get what you asked for _wolf_. Be patient."

It's hard to tell who is speaking, and the footsteps shift again and the voices drift off.

In the shadows Dean can see his brother's quizzical face. He shrugs.

"Now -- I have an angel -- interrogate." the hoarse voice drifts out and the footsteps fade out of sight.

Still neither brother dare to move. Dean's still holding his breath and his heart is racing. He wonders how they can't hear it.

He prays that Castiel is okay. The angel can only take so many blows before he's past gone. Dean wishes they hadn't had to leave him, but the brothers had to use any opportunity that was given to them.

Sam mouths something at Dean, but in the darkness he can't see. He waits another minute before cracking the door open.

It's clear. He stumbles out, glancing around. Sam follows, the closet door swinging closed behind him. There were so many good jokes about coming out of the closet, but now wasn't the time. (Sam would also turn them onto him so Dean wasn't going to risk it.)

"She?" Sam whispers, frantically, "Who were they talking about?"

Dean grins, and motions to the end of the corridor where a door sits, partially open. A slit of light seeps through, almost inviting them in. "Want to find out?" he asks.

***

The room they enter is warmly lit with several lamps, despite large sweeping windows across one wall. Padded sofas sit along another wall, and the final two are covered in glass fronted bookshelves.

In the centre of the room is a thick, probably Persian rug. On it is a wooden chair, and there is a girl tied to it. Her hands are behind her back and she's gagged. She's got thick, strawberry blonde hair that cascades over her shoulders. Her mascara is slightly smudged, just enough to make her look desperate. She can't be older than twenty.

Her eyes widen as the two of them sneak in, and for a moment the pair freeze as if caught in the act, then Sam's brother moves forwards muttering something dark and indecipherable under his breath.

Sam stops him, "Dean, wait. She might be a demon. It could be a trap."

"MmmMmm," the red head's eyes were frantic and a little bit exasperated, as if to say 'get a move on'.

Dean pauses and he eyes her up. The red head glares right back. "Can we at least ungag her?" he asks. Without waiting for Sam's permission he paces around her, and unties the thick knot of the gag. It takes him a while, but finally it slips free and the girl chokes it out, spitting and pulling a face.

"Ugh," she says, and then her eyes flicker from Dean to Sam, "Who are you?" she challenges, and there is fire in her words.

"It's okay," Sam ducks into a crouch in front of her, "My name is Sam and this is my brother - Dean." She doesn't appear to recognise the names, "We're going to get you out - we just need check a few things."

"Check what?" she asks suspiciously. She doesn't flinch however when Sam pull out his silver knife.

"That you're not possessed," Dean says, stalking around her. "Or some other supernatural monster."

She opens her mouth and then closes it with a sharp hiss as Sam cuts along her arm, "Is that thing even clean?" she asks, glaring at them. "And you know that's really not the best place to cut--"

Dean huffs, interrupting her with the simple task of unscrewing his holy water and letting a little trickle onto her arm.

She stares at them, and if Sam didn't know better he's say she was almost patronising when she asks, "And that's what? Holy water to check I'm not a vampire?"

"Holy water to check you're not a demon." Dean says, screwing the flask back up.

"A demon?" she repeats, and it's obvious the word has meaning to her. Then she shakes her head, "I'm not a demon. I'm a banshee."

"You're a what?" Dean repeats, then turns to Sam, "So she's a banshee," he shrugs helplessly confused.

"My name is Lydia," she corrects icily.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Dean grins at her, " _Lydia_ is a banshee."

"We _know_."

Both brothers whirl around at the hoarse, impatient voice. "Crap." Dean mutters.

The demon lounges in the entrance to the room. The only entrance (Sam doesn't really fancy trying the windows).

He's tall and thin, with sunken cheeks and dark hair. His eyes are blue for only a moment before he blinks them to orange. It's darker than Belial's yellow, but not quite red. It's like blood and like the sun, and it swirls sickeningly like a pit of fire.

"Malphas," Sam challenges.

The demon grins, "You've heard of me?" his voice is like stones grating over each other, "I'm flattered. I mean - I've heard of you of course. Everyone's heard of you. The Winchester Brothers. You're infamous - especially down in Hell." he leers at Sam first, and then Dean, and both brothers shiver at the malicious gaze. "We've got your pet angel trussed up downstairs." he adds, carelessly. He's testing the water, and Sam is going to pretend to ignore that.

Except Dean can't just let that slide. "Don't you touch him!" The blonde snarls, and Sam moves to stand in front of his brother before he can try and do something stupid like wrestle the fallen angel to the floor.

The demon just laughs derisively, clicking his tongue, "Touchy." he says dryly. He doesn't even smile - it's like all the humour has been sucked out of him.

"What do you want with a banshee?" Sam challenges, glancing to where Lydia is pale faced, still tied to the chair, looking scared but frustrated as she uselessly tugs at the bonds. "They're what? People who herald death?"

Malphas raises his eyebrows, unimpressed, "She." he takes a step forwards, "Can sense things. Beyond even my perception sometimes. She can see beyond mortal sight. Her voice carries beyond the air. And her hearing dips into other worlds."

"Shut up." the girl whispers, and she looks freaked out.

Dean's jaw clenches, and Sam knows what is happening before it does. His brother steps forwards, as if to do something, but the demon intercepts it with a casual wave flicking his hand.

Some force shoves Sam to the side, until he feel the bookcase hit his back. It winds him, but he's not pinned there yet. He pushes himself up from the heap on the floor only for something heavy to crash into his legs. He sucks in air with a gasp, and there's a sideboard pinning the lower half of his body to the wall. There is a grunt and he realises Dean is next to him, arms straining to push it back but not succeeding.

Well Sam will give this demon points for originality at the very least.

"Now stay there and be good," Malphas sounds bored, staring instead at Lydia.

She doesn't cry. Sam admires her for that, and for the fire in her eyes as she juts out her chin. "I've faced scarier things than you. I have nothing to say to you."

"We'll see." the demon's eyes slide back to a pale blue-grey as he straightens the suit that he wears. He leans back and begins strolling around the bound banshee.

This is bad, Sam thinks. This is really, really bad. He strains against the sideboard, but it's like an unmoving rock.

Besides him Dean slumps slightly, eyes drifting to the demon who is looking like a satisfied cat, bird trapped struggling beneath his paw. "Hey!" the blonde gasps out, and whatever he says next is going to be stupid, Sam just knows it. "How much did it hurt when you fell from Heaven?"

Sam was right. Malphas just looks unimpressed, "Not half as much as when I crawled out of Hell." he replies promptly, but doesn't even turn to look at them. Instead he trails around the banshee, behind where she can't see. She cranes her head, but he's in her blind spot. He doesn't touch her, but it's almost worse because he's so close, breathing down her neck.

"Well now we have ourselves a situation," he murmurs softly, "So how about you tell me what I want to know, or else I'll kill your brave knights in shining armour."

"Kill them." is her immediate response. "They weren't very good at their jobs." She doesn't strike Sam as the damsel in distress either.

Malphas huffs, "Really? Just like that?" he glances at the brothers, then the banshee and then back to Sam and Dean. Sam expects him to - well he's not actually sure, but he knows he didn't expect the demon to just shrug, "Fine. It's not like they're going to stay dead. After all I heard Belial had buried you under a tonne of dirt and rubble. _Obviously_ that didn't stick," he drawls.

He raises his hand, and looks like he's about to flick it to the side. Neat, clean, and their necks will snap. At least it will be a good death, Sam thinks numbly.

He doesn't close his eyes. Neither he nor Dean are really scared of death anymore. Which is why he can see the moment something yanks the demon up and tosses him to one side like a rag doll. It's like the demon is attached to a bungee cord, and he hits the one wall heavily, and slides down, dazed.

"What the--" With a shove they are released from the telekinetic hold and Dean manages to kick the sideboard away as they scramble out from behind it. Sam hears the sound too, the faint whine of the EMF metre in his brother's pocket. "I switched it off," Dean hisses, and he's scrambling for it when the demon pushes himself upright, glaring fire filled eyes at them.

"What did you--" he manages to get out, before he is deafened by a loud piercing noise. It's like an alarm, shrill and whistling. It makes Sam wince, but in comparison the demon quails, as if the smoky twisted grace inside him is burnt by the sound.

It's the banshee, Sam realises. She's screaming.

The glass around them shatters.

***

Dean ignores the whining EMF in his pocket as he slips out a knife, slicing through the bonds. The girl - Lydia - has a loud shriek, and it shatters the glass of the room. The bookshelves, the windows - it all breaks down in a rain of fragmented pieces.

The sound dies, but Dean barely notices, as he tugs the girl to his feet.

"Let's get out of here," he says, pushing her past where the demon quails. He notices them but before he can do anything the EMF metre whines again and something throws him to one side away from them.

Dean doesn't stay to watch, and hoping he got thrown out the window by whatever helpful ghost is on their side, he shovels his little brother and the banshee out of the door.

"This way," Dean makes for the main stairway, "We need to get Cas."

"What about Belial?" Sam hisses, running after him.

"We'll focus on that when it comes up," Dean snaps after him. Lydia yanks her arm out of his grip, and looks at them, keeping pace alongside them. Dean's impressed by her ability to keep up, considering she is wearing some small high-heeled boots that are totally unsuitable for any sort of sport.

"Was that you?" she asks, as they turn down the corridor towards the front stairs. There's not exactly much time for subtle now.

"Was _what_ me?"

"Did you throw the demon aside?"

"I thought that was you! You're meant to be the psychic voice hearing person - aren't you?"

"I'm a banshee. I was too busy screaming to try out the non-existent mental powers!"

"I don't get it," Sam pauses behind them to get a sense of direction and then heads off down a different path. Dean and Lydia skid to a halt before backtracking to follow him. "What did they want you to do?" Sam asks, fishing out an angel blade and their run slows to a more cautious walk.

"To - hear something. To listen to someone talking. If I could hear words. I couldn't, but I still lied. Told them to get lost."

"You go girl," Dean whistles. "Most people in your situation would have panicked and talked."

"I'm not most people." Lydia huffs, "And that demon isn't the first supernatural thing I've encountered."

"Oh yeah? Whatcha met besides your own banshee self?"

"Werewolves. Kanima." Lydia lists over, "Psychotic druids."

"Okay. Consider us impressed," Sam interrupts their banter, as he spots the staircase, "Now let's get out of here!"

"Some rescue mission," Lydia mutters venomously.

"Shut up and run, banshee girl."


	27. Don't Fret Precious (I'm Here)

"Who is she?" Castiel looks up as they come crashing down the stairs. Dean swallows and shakes his head mutely, grabbing a nearby table. He knocks off the glass vase and it shatters onto the floor as he upturns the table onto the holy fire circle.

"Dean." Sam shakes his shoulder.

"We need to get out of here," Dean looks around for an exit. Lydia looks lost, red hair dishevelled as she looks at the brothers expectantly, and then a curious side-glance at the angel.

"Dean," Sam hisses, and he's staring at something down one of the corridors. "Isn't that--?"  
Dean whirls around, and he doesn't see it at first. There is a long dining table in the next room over, and the only thing on it is a wooden bowl.

A wooden bowl with elaborate carvings on it.

"The grail," Castiel sees it too, and steps towards it.

At that precise moment there is the sound of a door opening upstairs, and footsteps heading towards them. They freeze and the banshee-girl chews on her lip. "Aren't we going to go then?" she hisses, "Where's the exit?"

"But the grail--" Sam looks torn.

"We can't!" Dean says, "We have to get out of here!" and he pulls Sam back, shoving him towards the corridor they had used earlier.

Lydia stumbles after them, with Castiel behind her. Dean makes for the door they had used earlier, but they don't even get that far when figures appear at the end.

He's too far away to see their eyes, but he knows that they're demons.

He shoves Sam towards the nearest door. They’re going to have to go with a different plan. There are more than one ways out of this place after all.

The door Sam stumbles through leads into a dark room with a set of stairs that go down.

"Really?" Lydia shoots him a look.

"Your call, princess," Dean feels like Han Solo trying to persuade Princess Leia down a rubbish shoot. But there are shouts from the demons in the distance and she follows Sam without any more complaint.

Castiel is last in and he shuts the door behind them, plunging the space into blackness.

There is a curse. Dean thinks Sam might have fallen down the stairs.

Lydia on the other hand is surprisingly co-ordinated, even in heels and when the light switch on she is the one standing by them, a small smile on her face as she grins up at Dean and Castiel. Sam is sprawled on the floor, gangly limbs that are mostly uncoordinated muscle.

"Great rescue plan," she tells them smartly.

"It wasn't our intention to come in here to rescue you." Dean spits out, skipping down the steps two at a time.

"Then what _were_ you doing?" Lydia asks, "And who's he?" she gestures at where Castiel is drawing a devil's trap on the door to stop them being followed with a sharpie he must keep in his pocket or something. Dean isn't sure if it will work on Malphas and Belial, but it's still there to give them extra time.

Sam shoves himself to his feet, "That's Castiel. Dean's boyfriend."

"He's an angel." Dean snaps.

"I'm sure he is," the banshee-girl just looks smug. Dean doesn't bother to answer as he moves forwards. The room is bare, stone walls with lumps of dust in the corner. For a moment he worries that they've done nothing but trap themselves in. The plans had shown there was a way out though and it had to be here somewhere.

That's when he spots the trap door, and he crouches down to attempt to lever it open. "Cas - a hand?" he asks.

The angel sighs impatiently, and he lifts the heavy oaken door without breaking a sweat. It's one handed even, and Dean swears he's showing off just for the point of it. "Did you find anything?" he asks.

"Nope." Sam drops down besides Dean, "Nothing. Nada." his head shakes in a 'no'. "Met Malphas though. Orange eyes. Swell guy."

The banshee-girl steps forwards until she stands before the hole the trap door has revealed. Sam pulls out a torch from one of his space-dimensional pockets and shines it down into the blackness. There's a ladder going down and nothing more. "You knew his name - he didn’t even have to introduce himself." she notes, "So you're what - hunters that specialise in demons?"

Dean wonders how she knows about hunters, but then realises she's a banshee that apparently has experience with werewolves and whatever the hell a kanima was. "Something like that." he tells her. "We just know a little about a lot of things - just enough to make us dangerous."

"You're not very professional," Lydia sniffs, "Next you're going to say that we're going to have to escape through _that_."

Castiel looks down, examining the gaping black hole. "It appears to be the only way out." he says calmly.

"Uh oh." Dean sighs, running a hand through his hair. There are fragments of glass in it from earlier. "Creepy old basement is never good."

"Why?" Castiel frowns.

"Dude, don't you watch the horror movies?" Dean protests.

"Oh my god," the banshee enunciates, staring at him, "You are just like Stiles. You are just like--" she shakes her head, eyes closing tiredly.

"What the hell is a Stiles?" Dean fumbles, as Sam takes a leap of faith and lowers himself down into the hole.

***

Sam hates it when Dean's right.

Malphas might be the demon of gluttony, but here his secret endeavours are squirreled away in what is probably the darkest corner of his mansion.

The basement was a bad idea.

Sam finds the light switch to help guide the other three down. At times like these he misses Castiel's magic angel teleportation powers. But even though he and Dean had been short on escape plans, he's glad that Dean at least managed to remember this one.

At least, he thinks he's glad.

Short story: they've found out where the babies are.

Or at least - what's left of them.

Which is to say, very little. Most of it is painted in red on the walls, but there are bones scattering the countertop of what looks like some sort of evil laboratory.

Lydia - the banshee - winces but otherwise looks unconcerned by it. But then she's focussing on something, and Sam realises later that she's mouthing numbers, and he has to pass close by before he hears exactly what she's saying.

She's reciting the numbers of pi.

Castiel takes a sharp gasp when he surveys the scene, "This is--" he closes his eyes in anguish. "This is not good."

"You think?" Dean has his lips curled as he stalks forwards, along the room to the door at the far end.

"No, this--" Castiel follows Dean, "The bones of a child not even born can be used for a whole range of rituals. All of them bad."

"Like 'Apocalypse bad' or 'I stubbed my toe' bad?" Dean asks, trying the door handle. It's locked, of course it is, and Sam moves forwards, pulling out his lock pick and shoves Dean out of the way as he bends over it.

The angel's withering gaze is enough to answer the question.

The lock clicks open and with a smug grin Sam stands, pushing it open. His brother sighs in relief and makes to go through it but Sam stops him, grabbing Dean's shoulder. He pulls Dean close to whisper in his ear.

"We have to go back," he whispers.

The blonde knows what he's talking about.

"We let Cas take the girl and we go back for it."

Dean's expression answers his request. "We can't." he shakes his head, "If we go back there we'll end up buried six feet under, and this time there will be no chance of getting out."

"But--" Sam is distraught. He's not sure how the demons got the grail, but the fact is that it's there for the taking. If they just--

"No." Dean's firm and commanding. "Who wants  to bet that the room wasn't angel warded back then. Or that we wouldn't have grabbed it just as Belial strolled through the door?" Dean shakes his head, "We can go back but there is no chance Sam and you know it."

"I don't see what's so special about that bowl you saw?" Lydia speaks up cautiously. She's remained mostly silent, pi reciting under her breath.

"It's not just a bowl," Castiel explains, and there is reverence in his blue eyes, "It's a grail. _The_ grail."

"So what does that mean?" Sam throws out his hands, "The wolf gave the demons the cup?"

"Look, as fascinating as this conversation is," Lydia huffs impatiently, "Can we get out of the torture chamber with what I think might be dead baby parts before I scream. Again."

Dean pulls out of Sam's grip. "Come on then banshee-girl. Ladies first." He grins disarmingly at her and with what Sam can only describe as a flounce, Lydia stalks through.

"So where are you from anyway?" Dean asks, following her.

Sam can't see her, but he knows the banshee-girl is just smirking. "California," she announces, "Beacon Hills."

***

They get out eventually.

The basement narrows into a small corridor which eventually ends up opening out into  a boathouse which sits behind the mansion.

Getting off the grounds then is easy. Well, easy isn't exactly the word Dean would use, but it definitely could have been harder.

Malphas and Belial could have shown up. Yet thankfully they saw neither hair nor orange yellow eye of the fallen angels.

Lydia was not impressed with their escape route. Not that Dean or Sam really cared what the banshee-girl thought. She was unharmed and according to her had only been there for less than twenty-four hours.

"I was in California," she tells them, "Then I got kidnapped. Ended up in--" she stops.

"Utah." Sam supplies helpfully, but then he grows more grave. "We can't take you back there. To California. You have to stay with us."

"Why?" Lydia was disbelieving.

"Because you're not safe," Dean picks up where his brother left off, "There are demons out for your blood." And once upon a time they would have forgotten about them - shoved them into a safe house boat with another hunter to look after them.

Now however they were taking responsibility. Dean wasn't sure whether that was because the last person they had done that to had ended up kidnapped, or if it was simply because they no longer knew any living (human) hunters.

"I can protect myself," she snaps, "And there's the pack, we managed just fine with the hell hounds--"

"Pack?" Dean repeats, "Hell hounds?" he shakes his head, "If you thought that was gonna' convince us sweetie then nice try."

"Then let me phone them." Lydia says, "At least let me tell them I'm alright."

Castiel steps up then, and his expression says it all. "They'll be monitoring the phones." he says, "If you contact your friends, then it might just redirect the demons to go after them instead. No. It's better they don't know anything."

She looks like she wants to argue. But then she stops and just looks annoyed. "Fine." she says smartly, "But I expect somewhere decent to stay with you two." she points at Sam and Dean. "Separate rooms. And not some five dollar motel on the side of the freeway. And finally," she sticks her hands on her hips, and Dean thinks they might have finally met their match, "Do I have to ride in that?" her tone is one of disgust, and Dean is about to complain, to defend his baby, when he turns to see what she was pointing to.

He stifles laughter and it is Castiel's turn to look indignant, "That is my vehicle," he says stiffly, "And no. I shall be separating from you here. I have other matters to attend to."

"You're not coming back to the bunker," Dean's smile falls. He had enjoyed having the angel about, and now his mood deflates somewhat at losing him again so soon.

Blue eyes meet his, "This thing with Malphas and Belial - it's bigger than we thought. Bigger than even Crowley predicted. I think it all centres around that town she's from."

"Beacon Hills," Lydia sighs, "Of course." her lips are thin and she look unimpressed, "Just our luck," she declares, shrugging. It's as if she is far too used to bad stuff happening there, and her tone is the same one Dean and Sam use whenever something in their lives goes wrong. "Fine." she crosses her arms, "I'll go with you. For now."

"We'll get you back to Beacon Hills as soon as we work out what the demons want with it," Sam promises.

She casts his a look of disdain. For now she'll follow with them as they stalk out the rumours. Hopefully she'll verify something.

But needless to say she's not happy.

***

Sam dumps a huge box down on the table, days later. Dean jumps, startled from where he was nursing a coffee, sitting at the table in the bunker.

Lydia just sniffs where she is curled up on a chair. "What that?" she wrinkles her nose at the dust cloud that floats out.

Sam can't exactly say Lydia Martin has been the easiest house guest, but she hasn't been terribly difficult either. Half of their issues with new people are already gone with her knowledge of the supernatural. It's limited, admittedly, and she doesn't even know much about her own psychic abilities.

Dean is reading about banshees at the moment. It's a Gaelic text, or maybe Irish, Sam thinks. Lydia currently is actually doing school work, although Sam doesn't know where she found it. He thinks it might have been stolen from what remained of his Stanford notes, but if he's being honest he didn't even think he still had any of those lying around.

"This," Sam gestures and the box, sniffling a bit as the dust wafts into his nose. "This is all about Beacon Hills."

There is a scrape as Dean pushes his chair back. "Holy--" he stares at it and even the banshee-girl looks surprised. She hasn't said much about her home town yet, but then they haven't exactly been the forthcoming type either. "That's a lot of stuff," Dean observes unhelpfully.

"There's also this," Sam tosses a file onto the table, "It confirms our theory."

"Which one?"

"About there being two strains of werewolves that both descended from the Alpha."

"Alpha?" Lydia stands and stalks over. She's small, and the top of her head barely comes up to Sam's shoulder. Yet despite this she walks with a confidence that makes the whole room want to look at her.

Sam could not begin to say how glad he was that Dean had not tried to hit on her yet.

The banshee stops next to the table. "There are lots of alphas." she says, "Each pack has one - they're the leaders."

Dean pushes a chair out with his foot for her to sit on. "Alpha. The First." he shakes his head. "Each species - vampires, kitsune, djinn - they all have one original being. The Alpha of its kind."

"What we've got," Sam begins turning over pages in the file, "Is that the werewolf alpha spread his curse through two methods. A bite. Or genetically. The blood line that was genetic was purer, and the wolves were more tame and in control. Even if they spread the bite to others they usually stayed that way."

"Then you get the bitten wolves which are ferals." Dean adds, "They feast on organs, are governed by the moon, are actually infectious--" he waves his hand in an etcetera motion.

"It's possible," Sam slips into his seat across from the pair, "That a bitten wolf can maintain control. It’s harder, but possible, especially if grounded by an anchor. It’s also possible that a wolf from a genetic line if it loses control enough could switch to the other kind. It becomes feral through lack of a pack, moon phases. Goes after organs. It’s bite even becomes infectious after a while."

"An omega," Lydia is staring into the distance, nodding. Her gaze focusses sharply onto Sam when he begins speaking again.

"That's also," he continues, "Why some werewolves are affected by silver and others aren't. See some hunters in France got the bright idea to make a tulpa symbol that turns the myth of silver hurting werewolves and shifters into a reality. And while that may stick to the ferals, it never quite managed to affect the purebloods."

"It's not the metal." Lydia's tone is condescending, "It's the family. I thought you were hunters?"

"We are," Dean finally finishes wrestling tape off the box relating to Beacon Hills. He pulls it open and lifts out a pile of paper and pictures. It scatters onto the table and his brother begins to sort through as Sam pulls out his laptop.

He has a folder of internet bookmarks labelled 'Beacon Hills'. It's been sitting there for far too long and he thinks it's about time he gets some answers for several things.

Dean works as Sam poses the questions to Lydia. "So the animal attacks were werewolves?"

She nods.

"But the teenager that went on a rampage with a paralytic? Matt. It says here that there were witnesses. The Sheriff, a nurse, two teenagers - one Scott McCall and a…" Sam squints at the name, "Kid's name - uh - how do you even pronounce that?"

"We just call him Stiles," Lydia says airily.

Sam blinks, "Well there were rumours flying around about a giant lizard. Any truth in that?"

"It was a kanima." the red head looks almost bored, but Sam's beginning to think that's a permanent expression on her face.

"Ah okay - no, actually, what's a kanima?"

"A werewolf who can't transform properly so turns into a lizard thing instead." she shrugs casually. "He gets controlled by a human, and technically Matt was ordering him to kill those people."

Sam blinks. Slowly. "So did you find out who the kanima was? And what did you do? Kill him?"

She looks at him in distaste, "He was my boyfriend," she says, and her tone is icy. "Jackson had a supernatural existential crisis. We got him over it and he's in London now."

Sam wisely decides to move on. "And the threefold sacrifices?"

"How the hell do you know that's what they were?" she looks alarmed, "It took us ages to work that out."

The younger Winchester shrugs, "It's kind of our job. We get used to spotting patterns." He pulls out a map he had printed out, the ley lines marked clearly on it. "Like this," he spreads in front of Lydia. "So it turns out the name 'Beacon Hills' is kind of appropriate."

"Well it is literally like a Beacon." Lydia crosses her arms, "All the energy lines run around it making a supernatural hotspot."

"Why would anyone live in a shit hole like this?" Dean speaks up from his paper piles, "It's mostly abandoned buildings and places where violent murders happen."

"I want to disagree with you," Lydia sighs, "But I can't."

"It is literally a giant supernatural beacon." Dean continues. "According to this file because of that fact it was a point of interest for the Men of Letters for a long time. They were even in contact with a…" he grabs the folder and flicks it open, sending paper sliding everywhere. Sam makes a grab for some of it, and shoves it into a pile. "A genetic werewolf family." he says. "The town is guarded by a pack of werewolves. Purebloods. The Hale family." Lydia startles at the name.

"But they -- " Sam pulls out his corresponding newspaper articles about the town. "The Hale Fire." he jabs a finger at the paper, "Eleven caught inside and eight confirmed dead."

"--wait." Dean frowns, "Hale? Like that Peter dude?"

"You've met Peter?" the banshee-girl sounds shocked.

"Yeah, we met him last month sometime. He was working with a hunter called Chris Argent to track down an feral werewolf."

"Allison's dad was with him?" she is disbelieving.

Dean just shrugs, "I hope you two aren't good friends with Hale, because the next time we see him we're going to shoot him."

"Be my guest. He possessed me to resurrect himself from the dead.”

Like Benny, Sam thinks. The soul hitched a ride and the fact that Lydia is a banshee must have acted a conduit straight from Purgatory to Earth. He keeps silent.

Dean frowns, "Wait. So you're saying he's not just a werewolf, but he's a freaking zombie werewolf?" He shoots Sam a grin, "It looks like I might be able to shoot something after all."

"If Castiel is right," Sam begins closing the various windows open on his laptop, "Then you should have plenty of demons to shoot. But the tame werewolves are off limits."

"Cute." Dean sighs. "Puppies. We're going to a town defended by a group of puppies."

Lydia is idly twirling a strand of strawberry blonde hair around her finger, "I wouldn't call them that to their faces," she advises. "They sprout claws."

"You don't." Dean challenges, "You just scream."

"And of the final members of the pack, one of them flails a lot and the other shoots arrows."

"Basically," Sam begins gathering up the papers Dean has managed to scatter everywhere, "Let's not go in guns blazing - okay Dean? I doubt they'll take too kindly to hunters who can't even see what the monster is in the situation."


	28. (Hope You Are) Quite Prepared To Die

It's been three weeks since Lydia had been kidnapped.

They have nothing. No clues. No hints. No leads. An air of desolation has settled over the pack, along with the foreboding that something is yet to happen.

Stiles feels like he's failed. Like he's let down the whole pack. Like he's let down Lydia. If only he had not lingered in the hallway, he would have been outside with her when the quake struck. She wouldn't have been alone. If only Isaac or Allison had been quicker. If only she's been slower she would have been inside with him.

The damn word just mocks him over and over again. He stands in the doorway and idly rolls a pen between his fingers, staring down at the scene in his dad's office. Supper sits in a Tupperware in his hands, because his dad doesn't even have the time to come home for dinner anymore.

Files are spread out across the desk and floor and every other available surface. The desk is littered with stuff that looks like it was evidence in various cases. His dad is almost buried in them. When Stiles had gone off to school this morning his father had been trying to link up cases and clues both present and past. When he returned that evening his dad was still there, still working.

"Anything?" he asks, straddling the chair backwards, half draping himself over it as he stares glumly at his father.

His dad just ignores him, too busy at work. It's almost worrying how his dad is losing himself in his job.

It's the FBI that is the problem. Or more accurately, it's Rafael McCall.

He keeps poking his nose into every single case, and has a knack for choosing the ones that have a supernatural link. Even the most plausible explanation seems weird in the various circumstances their town finds itself in, and Agent McCall seems to be trying to find every single one of them and pull it apart until there is nothing left.

"No? Nothing?" he asks rhetorically, poking around on the desk as he drops the lasagne down, trying to make a free spot. There is a pile of the recent deaths on his dad's desk and Stiles flicks through it. "So this is what? All the recent deaths? How many are we up to?" There had been two more since Lydia had been kidnapped. (He hated that that was how his time was measured now, around that one moment.)

"So we're up to what? Eight? Or have I missed one?" he flicks through them, noting that they all lived near the Nemeton, but beyond that nothing else connects them. "We think the Nemeton leaked power that affected them. Or did something to them. Maybe it marked them out and somebody is going around offing these people making them look like accidents."

"Stiles," his father sighs, "I'm trying to work."

"Work." Stiles nodes, "Yeah, work, I could get with that." He falls silent for a while.

The files are pretty sparse. All were upstanding citizens, except the rock fall death. "It's kind of ironic," Stiles begins to talk again. It's not like his dad's really listening to him. "This guy got split with his wife because she claimed he was too prideful. It sounds like she was too prejudiced. Like a modern Elizabeth and Darcy. Which is a rubbish book by the way. Anyway quote unquote he was vain and cared more for his job and appearance than her." Stiles snickers, because he has to find humour somewhere, "Oh how the prideful fall," he grins, "Or in this case their pride gets crushed. It's kind of appropriate really. Crushing his pride. Or that woman having an affair who burnt to death last week? And it was a passionate affair right? So it would have been all fiery and lustful?"

His dad isn't listening.

The ghost is.

Stiles isn't sure why he gets Matt. Maybe because of what Deaton said about their brains being different frequencies means he's the only one Matt can communicate with, but he prefers Heather. She usually sits quietly and hums in the corner. She’s complained once about dying as a virgin sacrifice, but Stiles just consoles her that he could still be in the same situation as her.

Matt isn't going to stay silent for long.

So Stiles continues to blabber, before the ghost decides to speak, instead of staring at him, soaking wet and half-drowned. "Their deaths are all kind of appropriate if you think. It's like someone takes their greatest personality flaw and kills them with it. Like take the first guy who was all hospitable and charity giving - he died because he neglected to care for himself. And then the drunk girl worrying about being pretty tore her own eyes out--"

Stiles stops, because he'd just been making shit up but the thing was--

It all fit.

"It's their personality." he says out loud, and then repeats it for good measure. "It’s their personality." It fit perfectly. Almost too perfectly. People living near the Nemeton all died due to their personality traits. The strongest one determined an ironic cause for death.

"What are you going on about?" the Sheriff is still on the floor, head bent. "Stiles, if you have nothing sensible to say then can you go away? I'm working!"

"The first guy was too charitable so he died of neglect." he ignores his dad, going through his file and pointing at each one, talking himself through it. "Then she was envious. So she lost her sight. Then his pride was crushed with rocks. Oh and that guy who was too lazy and he just… sat down and lazed to death. Lazed to death. That's kind of funny actually."

"Do you really think now is the time for your crazy supernatural business?" Matt snorts from the side. He tiptoes over a few piles of stuff to lean closer and Stiles unconsciously leans away from the cold air of the ghost. What was it Allison had said? Salt? He scrambles at his pockets but it's not like there is going to be any salt around in a police station. She and Scott had been salting their houses, but Stiles hadn’t.

He deserved this after all, in a way.

"It's the personalities." he ignores Matt instead, "Well except the guy in the woods who couldn't exactly hang himself so we figured a demon did that. A demon! Dad? Dad! Are you even listening?"

Stiles looks down at his father who is still engrossed in work. He's a man who has always taken pride in his job, working his way up from a deputy to Sheriff and staying there, despite everything with Stiles' mom. He's always been careful about putting family first, but when Stiles' mom dies, he had always used his job as a crutch, to keep him going. It gave him reason and purpose and it gave him focus.

And now his dad can focus on nothing other than work. It's his flaw. It's his hubris.

And if Stiles lets it, it will kill him.

"Dad! I know you're busy but please!" Stiles begs, "Hear me out!" Still nothing. "Mom would have listened!" he throws in, to see just how far gone his dad is.

"You know if you weren't such a hyperactive little shit she might not have died." Matt picks up as if he were waiting for that moment.

It hits Stiles like a brick and he stops, argument falling off the tip of his tongue. "Wah-what?"

"You know it's a miracle he even still has a job?" the ghost continues conversationally. Stiles feels numb. "He had to raise you after your mom left. She left him to raise a hyperactive little brat all along. It's a miracle he managed to get anything done what with werewolves and whatever fucking messes you manage to get yourself into all the time."

"Go away," Stiles hisses, and with a laugh Matt surprisingly does so. He leaves Stiles alone with his father, feeling hollow and empty and terrified. "Dad--" Stiles needs to get his father to stop working. He's been staying nights at the police station too now that he thinks about it. "DAD!"

"Stiles?" his dad finally looks up at that, "What _now_? Look, I'm not interested in any supernatural reasons. Sometimes there are plausible reasons as well."

"You're not even looking for other reasons," Stiles emphasises, because he needs to get his dad out of here now. "You're looking at--" he peers over, "A drunken ticket from five years ago?" he frowns, but then again his skills at reading upside down have never been that good.

"It's my job." the Sheriff snatches up the file in question.

Words obviously aren't going to do anything.

"Go away, Stiles." he dad finishes, "I have to work."

You've been working for hours, Stiles wants to say, but he keeps silent. "Do you want something to drink?" he asks instead, sadly. He feels like he's just had everything beaten out of him, until there is nothing but a shell standing there, empty and numb.

Numbness was better than pain.

"Water would be great thanks," so at least his dad isn't going to die of thirst yet.

He pours a glass of water from the dispenser in the main officer. There's a cupboard there with some first aid supplies in it, and when he pokes around he finds what he's looking for. He's not sure how long it will take before the illness in his dad gets bad enough to kill him, but even so he takes two sleeping pills out of their casing.

He dissolves them into the glass of water.

He thinks maybe a subtle protest might work just as well as staging an intervention.

***

The past few weeks have been hard on them all.

Allison feels the loss of her best friend keenly, and she has to force herself to remember that Lydia isn't dead, that she's still alive out there, and that they'll find her eventually.

It does nothing and as the days pass the candle of hope flickers wildly, yet still she keeps it burning.

Lydia's parents are frantic with worry. Allison feels helpless. There is nothing she can do, not just to bring their daughter back, but to reassure them. They don't know about the supernatural. They have no clue and Allison thinks that telling them their daughter is a banshee who got kidnapped by demons so she could scream to the dead (at least that was Deaton's theory) is even worse than just telling them their daughter vanished in the earthquake and nobody knows where she is.

At least, Allison considers, Lydia's parents are doing the usual parent thing of worrying. They even seem to have forgotten how much they hate each other, at least for the moment. Unlike her dad whom it seems as if the events in Beacon Hills couldn't interest him at all.

"No," he snaps, snatching the gun out of her hands. He's been trying to expand her knowledge of weapons, and they're standing in their garage, a small target set up against one wall. "Not like that," he growls, grabbing her hands abruptly and shoving the handgun into them. He positions her fingers with none of the care or finesse that he usually holds. He's distracted, and appears to be avoiding any contact with her.

Breathing out slowly Allison positions her feet and pulls the trigger. A small hole appears towards the top left of the target.

"You're still pulling up as you shoot," Chris chides her. His blue eyes are like cold pieces of flint and Allison struggles to remember the last time he smiled.

He has been so sad lately.

She cocks the handgun and tries again, air slipping past her lips.

Again the target is hit in the one corner. With a frustrated noise Chris grabs her wrist, holding it too tightly. Alarmed Allison almost drops the gun, but he scoops it out of her limp fingers and in one swift movement cocks it and pulls the trigger.

He hits the yellow centre of the target. "See?" he turns around, "Now don't just stand there looking pretty, Allison. Pick it up and shoot."

He holds the gun out for her and she reaches for it.

Her hands tremble and he notices, no matter how she tries to hide it. "Allison!" he snaps, and she flinches slightly as he grabs her hand.

"Okay. Okay," even her voice trembles, "I can do this. I can do this." It's almost like a mantra that she repeats in her head. She's been trying to stay strong for weeks now, but there's an air of hopelessness in the air that threatens to drown her. At least the ghosts are gone. Her dad has warded their house with salt, and though Allison can’t see why sodium chloride deterred the spirits, it gives her peace and quiet from Kate and Victoria's disapproving words.

Now instead she has to suffer through it from her father as she grips the gun too tightly and this time the bullet hits the concrete half a metre left of the target.

"Relax, Allison," Chris sounds tense.

"I can't." she lowers the gun, arms shaking, "I can't. Scott has the twins and Isaac running ragged looking for signs. He's even got the British pack to join in, and Lexi and Nate are barely managing to balance the difference school work with all the different tasks and places Scott has them poking about." she half turns to him, needing the comfort, and hating herself for her weakness, "Stiles hasn't smiled for over a week. I can't… I can't even shoot straight. I'm not sleeping. I'm having nightmares…" she stops, because this is the most she's admitted to anyone for a while.

It's not exactly comfort she needs as much as understanding.

She isn't going to find it here.

Silently and without words Chris takes the gun from her hands. He turns to the table where the case is, beginning to strip it down, emptying the bullets from it and picking up a cleaning cloth. His lips form a thin line and Allison leans cautiously on the desk, ducking to see his face.

"Please," she asks, "Tell me I'm doing the right thing. Tell me I can't help them any more than I already am--"

"Help them?" Chris says, sadly, and he doesn't look at her.

"They're my friends. And I might be human but I can still do _something_ \--"

He slams one fist down on the table and she jumps. "You talk about them as if you're one of them." he says, tensely. "What? This family isn't enough for you?" She opens her mouth to protest but he doesn't let her. "You just had to go and find another." his voice is cold, "Your own little _pack_."

"Dad--"

He rounds on her, and for all her training, Allison never saw the hand coming. He lashes out, clipping her across the cheek and she stumbles backwards with the force of the blow. Her breath rushes out of her, more in surprise that anything else. She dabs her tongue with her lips, tasting blood. She's bleeding. Her dad's wedding ring had cut into her face when he hit her.

Her eyes are wide and full of hurt as Allison turns towards her father. "Shut up." he tells her when she makes as if to speak, "I don't want to hear any more about your little pack of mongrels. Got it?"

"They are my _friends_ ," she says, surprise lacing each word.

"And I am your family." he repeats, face like stone.

"Lydia is missing. And you're jealous of the pack?" she's disbelieving, as if she never imagined her dad could be capable of such a pitiful emotion.

"I'm _worried_ ," he emphasises, "Because half of that pack has ended up dead. I don't think it's safe for you to hang around with them anymore."

" _What_? No you can't - that's ridiculous." It's too late now to get her away from them. They're - she's pack now. She's already been through crazy alphas and hounds from hell, and _now_ he decides to act? Three weeks and the worst that had happened was a missing friend and some suspicious deaths and without sight nor sound of a demon, her dad was finally putting his foot down. He's been building to this, she thinks, but where was he when she was being stalked down by hell hounds in a parking lot. Where was he then? "No." she shakes her head, "You can't." he voice is firm. Her cheek stings from where he had hit her but her voice doesn't waver.

"Your _mother_ , is dead because of them." he stabs a finger out to one side. "I'm not letting the same thing happen to you." And now she's found the reason. Her dad isn't jealous.

He's scared.

"So this is some misplaced concern for my safety?" she's indignant. She's full of righteous anger and annoyance. "Well maybe you should have thought twice before tying me up in that house! I'm a hunter now, retired or whatever and I'm a part of this whether you want me to be or not! And right now I'm going to check in with Isaac."

"No." he shakes his head, and she sidesteps around him.

"Yes." she replies curtly, and is about to head for the door when he grabs onto her hand.

"I won't let you meet with them anymore. Allison, there are demons out for their blood. I can't let you do this anymore!"

" _Any more.._? So _now_ you're worried?" She tries to pull away.

"I'm worried you're forgetting who your family is!" he snaps, refusing to loosen his grip, "I'm worried that you're going to throw your life away for some misplaced idea of loyalty to people who aren't even your family!"

"They're my friends!" she snarls back, "That's just as important." she steps backwards, "Let go of me!" she pulls her wrist from his grip. "Let me go!" she yanks backwards, and when he lets go it sends her stumbling towards the door. Her eyes are wide with anger and a little bit of fear as he doesn't turn around to look at her. "I'm going to see Isaac," she tells him. her voice finds strength and she looks at him squarely. He looks behind him, his shoulders stiff.

"Go then." he challenges, "You're betraying your family, your very heritage, by sleeping with that rabid mutt. If that's who you pick then go."

Any words she has are dry on her tongue. She's not leaving him - why does he seem to think that? She knows that her dad has recently been thinking about her mom a lot, but to think that she'd leave him too--

"Fine." she shrugs, because there is bitterness in her and she's proud, too proud to try and argue with him in this state. "Fine." she spins around, and lets the door slam behind her.

Her façade lasts until she's in her car, and that's about when she lets herself break down into strangled, heaving breaths.

***

She and Stiles both choke it out at the same time, and though both of them are too out of it to notice, they both have the same bruised look to their expression.

"There's something wrong with everyone's personalities."

There are expectant looks from the rest of the pack, as they wait for an explanation. That’s why they’re all here at the loft, meeting this way. It’s why the pair both look exhausted, dark shadows under their eyes.

Allison casts a sort of helpless glance at Stiles who just shrugs back. "The Nemeton," he explains, "It's driving everyone who lives near it to death via their strongest personality trait. And it's spreading. People's personalities are being effected. The whole town."

Their hubris'. The strongest trait in their personality, be it generosity, envy, sloth, or jealousy.

And of course her dad's would be about familial love, his pride in his heritage and his love for his daughter, the only piece of it left.

And she had just strolled out of there and slammed the door in his face.

Her hand is half-way in flying towards her mouth when Stiles speaks again, "I don't think the rest of the town is in danger of death just yet," and he's looking at her, Allison knows it. "The deaths are all orientating around this area," he points to the map, and the bottom right hand corner near the edge of the preserve where the Nemeton sits.

"He's right," Allison nods, "The teachers at school. Everyone's been acting differently. For the people who died it just went a little bit too far."

"Too far?" Nate scoffs, perched on the back of the sofa, "You call death 'too far'?"

Allison looks studiously at the floor, "It starts off small, but then they just get worse. It's like an illness."

"You both seem to be speaking from experience." Isaac is far too observant for his own good.

Thankfully Stiles seems to realise she doesn't want to talk about it, for he snorts, drawing the attention towards him. "I just drugged my dad to sleep to stop him from overworking. Yeah, I'd say that counted as experience. That also explains why when I called Deaton his voicemail said he was on call."

Scott frowns, "But he's been on call all week. Like, literally, every time I pop in."

"Exactly," Stiles raises his eyebrows, point made, "So my dad's hardworking, he works himself to the ground. Deaton loves his job, so he goes around saving every single fluffy critter he comes across!"

"But what about you?" Lexi frowns in confusion.

"Yeah," Jethro points out, "What about any of us. We're all normal."

There is a pause in which Allison just knows that Lydia would have pointed out something clever. But Lydia isn't here so she does it instead to fill the gap and the hole in her heart.

"You're not human." she points out, and it's so obvious once she's said it. "None of you are. You're all wolves. You're already supernatural, something like this - _illness_ \--" (it seems like the wrong term almost but it's the best she can think of) "-this isn't going to affect you at all."

"Yeah," Nate hums, "But you and Stiles are human."

There's an awkward silence, and Stiles rubs the back of his head awkwardly, "Yeah," he agrees, "But then we're also kind of supernaturally already tied to the Nemeton. Our sacrifice must have - I don't know - give us immunity." He's once again drawn the pack's attention to him, and Allison is grateful.

That's good - she doesn't want to bring up the wounds her dad's words, intentional or not, are causing beneath her strong façade.

She's a hunter. She's not weak.

And even if there is that part of her that is, she can't let anybody see it.

"Does this mean the whole town is going to end up - like --" the young blonde stops, and Allison knows what Lexi is thinking of. Does this mean the whole town is going to end up dead eventually?

"We'll stop it," Scott says firmly, "It's taken three months to get this far. It's not spreading that fast."

"I just drugged my dad." Stiles says, gazing at the alpha with the dead gaze he had perfected over the past three weeks. His eyes flicker to her and then back to Scott. "We don't live near the Nemeton but that just means this sickness is spreading. We're running out of time."

Allison turns away and begins to pace. Jethro casts her a sideways glance, and she wonders if he's tuning into her thoughts, her aura, trying to read it. But instead he just turns away. He knows when to respect somebody's privacy.

Isaac however obviously doesn't for when she turns around to pace back he's there, peering at her closely.

She shies away slightly as he reaches towards her. She forces herself to stop and now flinch away, swallowing nervously. Isaac touches the cut on her lip gently. Her face feels sore every time she shifts her jaw, and she thinks she's getting a bruise. "Did he?" he asks quietly, sounding horrified. She hates that he jumps to the right conclusion straight away, but he must know from experience.

"It's nothing," she pushes his hand away. She glances around to check that nobody else noticed, but Jethro, the only one within hearing distance is studiously ignoring them, and the other three werewolves are all focussing on Stiles as he babbles on about the Nemeton. There is desperation to his tone and it takes up the whole room, and Allison's panic goes unnoticed.

By all except her boyfriend.

Is that it? It that the right term? She's not even sure what they are, not really.

"Don't say that," he says gently, "He's affected by this too, isn't he?"

"He's not in his right mind," she defends, "He just misses mom. He doesn't want me to leave."

She wonders if her heart missed a beat, because he doesn't look convinced, "It's not your fault," Isaac tells her, hand cupping her chin, "There is nothing you did to deserve that."

She doesn't think she believes him. Judging by his expression he knows that, because he ducks his head forwards and presses his lips against hers tentatively.

There is a loud cough from Jethro. He's like a calmer but crazier version of Stiles.

So naturally the pair ignore him.

***

Knowing what is going on doesn't make is any easier.

Scott and his pack might have some special immunity, but nobody else does. And now Stiles and Allison have pointed it out, it's like the floodgates have opened and everyone he sees is out of character. He watches for every little fault, every little change in their actions, waiting to spot their flaw. Everyone he passes on the way back to his house must be affected, and eventually every single person will be dead if they don’t stop it.

He wonders how it must feel, to have your personality dragged out into the light. It's always the strongest hubris that shows, be it good or bad. And whatever it is, it's twisted, gone wrong until even the nicest of personality traits are morphed into something selfish and cruel.

It's only when he unlocks his front door and hears the raised voices that he realises that despite his pack's safety, there are still people in his life who aren't immune.

"--you think you can come _back_ here after all these years -- your _son_ who you didn't even _talk_ to--"

"--Melissa, _please,_ I'm sorry, how many times do you want me to--"

"--would it have _killed you_ to pick up the phone?--"

Scott lingers in the hallway, reluctant to venture further. He idly finds himself paging through two of his books that sit on the bookshelf in the hall. One is an old copy of Grimm's Fairytales, and the other is a battered copy of Twilight, marked out by a post-it note. Scott doesn't need to look at it to know it reads 'not fucking funny Stiles' and that there is another one at the back of the book with a doodle of a fluffy wolf labelled 'McCall'.

The books do nothing to distract him from the shouting in the kitchen, and bracing himself he kicks at the bookshelf, making a noise as he shouts "I'm home!" to announce his arrival.

There is a pause in which he rounds the corner, knowing what he's going to see but still not really expecting it.

His parents are at each other's throats. Not literally - and Scott would know what that was like - but they're standing within a metre of each other, and both glare at him, before her mother's expression softens slightly.

"Scott," Rafael McCall looks slightly surprised, as if he had forgotten that Scott even lives here. "Where have you been?"

"With friends." Scott says shortly. He doesn't really want to deal with his father now.

"With friends." his dad repeats shortly. "Now?" he clarifies. Scott nods. "Where are they now?"  
"I left them at the loft," Scott shrugs, "Why?"

"You came home alone?" Rafael steps towards him, eyes deadly serious, "Scott that's dangerous! There are people dying in this town--" He looks to Melissa and then back to Scott. "Back me up - he can't just wander about by himself."

Melissa crosses her arms, "I'm not saying anything," she shrugs, "I have nothing to say to you."

His support lost, Rafael turns back to Scott, "People are dying. People are always dying in this damn town. I don't think wandering around by yourself is safe."

Scott snorts, "Like you care," he challenges. He glances at his mom, but she is glaring at his dad.

"You think," she starts, her tone dangerous, "You think you can come in here and tell me son what he can and can't do?"

"He's my son too!"

"You left!"

"I have a right to be in his life!"

"He doesn't want you in his life!"

Scott is backing away towards the door, and he gets the impression that this argument has just gone around and around in circles.

"Just stop interfering in our lives! We managed fine without you, and we can manage fine now!"

"You live in the town that is top of the mysterious death lists in years. And you think that Scott's old enough - he's barely sixteen--"

"--seventeen--"

"--for chrissake--"

The door opens with a click. Isaac stumbles into view and freezes at the sight of the family argument as all three McCall's turn around to look at him. "Sorry." he says, looking genuinely terrified. He glances at Scott for guidance. "I - uh -I'll be going--" he attempts to back-peddle out of the door.

"Who's this?" the agent spits, gesturing at Isaac. "A friend? Who just walks in? Scott is friends with someone who isn't Stilinski's goddamn kid?"

"That's Isaac." Scott jerks his head to get the beta inside, "He lives here."

"He--" Agent McCall splutters. "So now you're taking in strays, Melissa? What did you do - adopt the kid?"

"He's emancipated," Melissa's voice is stony cold. Scott feels a surge of guilt, because he hadn't even known that. Derek must have helped Isaac sort it out after his dad died.

"And he just lives here for free?" his dad glares at her.

"He's welcome here," she snaps back, "Unlike some people."

He gets the message, spinning around and shoving past Isaac towards the door. Isaac ducks out of the way, as if he expects to be hit but Agent McCall just twists the door handle open. "Well I can't say I haven't tried," he tells Scott's mom over his shoulder, "But obviously you burnt too many bridges when you kicked me out."

"Kicked you out?" she asks, disbelieving. "You left."

He shakes his head, short and sharp, "You told me to get out. And I did. I got out and I stayed away. But this time? This time I'm leaving. And if you want me back you'll have to come after me."

The door slams behind him.

This time both Scott and Isaac flinch.


	29. Bad Moon On The Rise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for the record, I hate this song I barely got over it in the S1 finale of SPN and then Teen Wolf came out with a version of it in the 3b finale. Actually in the last one I was mildly distracted by Void's hair, but that's not the point.

"What do you mean you don't use that term in America? But everyone uses it!"

They're trying to relax.

That's the plan.

Jethro thinks it worked out better in their head.

It had all started when he had agreed to take Lexi out to try and find a frozen yogurt stand, because apparently the young werewolf had never had frozen yoghurt before. Or maybe it had started when Stiles had started up some enthusiastic banter over British stereotypes, and somehow ended up following them along.

He's not quite sure how their conversation got onto this subject, but he knows that Nate would be scandalised if she found out that Stiles and Jethro were exchanging swear words over a bowl of frozen yoghurt, with Lexi within hearing distance.

"Nate's gonna' kill us for this," Jethro whispers in Stiles’ ears, a wide grin on his face.

"I've got a werewolf shield," Stiles proclaims, probably referencing Scott but Jethro has seen him hide behind Isaac too. He has a weird friendship with the beta wolf, that mainly involves the pair insulting each other, but underneath that there is a gentle camaraderie, "I’m safe - What do you have?"

"My good looks and charming personality." he flashes a grin.

Stiles snorts, "That's what you think."

Lexi stifles giggles as Jethro puffs out his chest, "I'll have you know I'm very handsome."

"Yeah," the younger girl elbows him in the side before dancing away, "That's why you went by your lonesome to prom. In a small plastic toy car."

"In a what?" Stiles frowns, outraged.

"We've got pictures," the little traitor promises, "They're on Facebook."

"So they should be," Jethro bluffs it off, "People deserve the chance to admire me. I'm sorry," he professes, in mock seriousness to Stiles. His new friend seems to be enjoying this chance to forget about everything. He doesn’t look too hard at Stiles’ thoughts, especially since Stiles’ mind is still a dark pit lately that he doesn't want to fall into. So Jethro does what Jethro does best and proceeds a distractions as he announces, "It’s just tough that you aren't as good looking as me."

"Actually," Stiles sounds far too pleased for his own good, "I think I win. I'm attractive to gay guys."

" _Attracted_ to gay guys or _attractive_ to gay guys?" For all her werewolf hearing even Lexi couldn't hear the high speed sentence.

"Does it matter?" Stiles shrugs, "Because Danny actually confided in Jackson who told Lydia who told Allison who passed it onto Scott who told me, that I am actually pretty cute and that it's too bad I'm not gay because Danny would have totally asked me out long ago."

"Did you just make that up?" Jethro retorts.

"You can't prove anything."

"I can try--" Jethro is mid-point in stabbing Stiles in the stomach with his finger when he freezes, a chill running up his spine. It's the same feeling he got when the demon was about to appear. The same feeling when the hounds were in town.

It makes him want to hide in a corner under the bed covers and never come out.

He's standing there with his mouth open, laughter dying on his face. Stiles stops abruptly, and Lexi stiffens, eyes wide.  "Jethro?" she asks, staring at him, "Jethro?" she sounds scared.

It takes a moment for him to realise that she is scared of him. His veins are running with a deep green beneath the skin. He takes a breath, trying to calm himself down.

"Dude," Stiles gently rests one hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay?"

He wants to nod, to smile, shake it off and say that everything was fine.

But it's not.

It's actually kind of typical really, that the one day they choose to relax and have fun, something bad turns up.

"There's something here," he shoves Stiles aside, his feet leading forwards of their own accord. "I can feel it."

"So what - Lydia is a body detector and you're our own personal monster detector?" Stiles' voice breaks on her name as he follows behind Jethro. "Then again," the older boy doesn't wait for a reply, but continues babbling, "That would make sense. Banshee's sense death, other worlds, all the spiritual stuff but you - you sense energies. Auras, they call them auras. And you can read people's auras, and I bet monster aura sets off a little red blip in the radar and-- where the hell are you going Jeth?"

Lexi is next to him, looking nervous but resolute. "I can smell it," she says suddenly. Jethro looks up to see where he had been walking, not really acknowledging it before. They had been moving down the street, and he has no idea what part of town they're in, but thankfully there are no creepy alleyways about.

Instead there is a car parked just off the street, and a dark figure is leaning over it. Something clicks and rattles and now they spot it, it's painfully obvious the person is trying to break in.

A dog barks from somewhere. There is one sitting in the car growling at the creature, a black and white collie. Next to it there is a cot, and probably a baby in the mass of blankets and toys that sit there.

Jethro barely even realises he's broken into a run. "Hey!" he shouts, "Hey, you!"

Lexi snarls, skidding to  halt just metres from the car, a threatening adolescent werewolf with yellow eyes and claws. In comparison, Stiles is a gawky, clumsy human with a baseball bat who overshoots slightly, stumbling forwards a few extra steps.

Where the hell did he get a baseball bat? Jethro wonders. He shouts out again, "Get away!"

The figure looks up, and almost immediately Jethro wishes it hadn't. He doesn't know if he was expecting green or yellow or black eyes, but he knows he wasn't expecting this. The figure is a woman, with long dark hair that frames her face, and in comparison her skin is pale, almost translucent and Jethro can almost see the bones underneath. Her eyes are oddly shaped, and not only is the pupil round and ringed with a pale, almost yellow hazel, but the shape is almost cat-like, far too circular and unnatural, blinking out at him.

Black veins seep under the skin, the same colour as her hair. For a moment her mouth hangs open, like a hungry panting dog, and something dark and black slithers inside her mouth.

It's a tongue, Jethro realises, a long black tongue, dripping saliva and framed by rough, jarring teeth. Then the jaws shut and the pale skin flushes with colour, and she blinks her eyes and they look more human.

That's probably the disguise, Jethro thinks, but it's too late. They at least have seen beneath the facade, and the monster abandons trying to break into the car to stumble backwards, turning tail and running.

Lexi takes off after her. She's the fastest wolf in the pack, and Jethro and Stiles don't pause before following behind. But the creature is fast too, and after two corners they've lost her.

Breathing heavily Jethro slows to a halt, and his heart is racing, but not from the monster but from the run. Whatever feeling he had earlier is gone, and has left him feeling nothing but confused and slightly scared.

"What was that?" Stiles asks, alarmed, "She was going to--" he looks sick, "The baby's okay," he says, "Dear god, who leaves a child unattended in the car?"

Jethro wants to point out there was a dog in there that Stiles obviously didn't notice, and that the parents were just in the store nearby, but none of them are decent excuses.

"It's an aswang."

"Gesundheit," Stiles says, pulling his phone out and casting out wildly to get a signal. Jethro knows how he feels. As if demons and ghosts weren't bad enough, they now have weird monsters showing their faces.

"An aswang," Lexi hisses, batting at Stiles. "It's Filipino. Mum used to tell me stories about them."

"What's it doing here?" Jethro asks, shuddering as if he can feel the black tongue crawling over his skin.

"The town's a beacon." Stiles whispers. "And with whatever the demons are doing to the place, ghosts aren't the only thing that is turning up."

***

"Do you think there is going to be more?"

They're sitting at the vet clinic, waiting for Deaton. They've been there the last hour, but the last they heard Deaton had wandered off to some seminarian convention in San Francisco. ‘Do they even have those? Are those a thing?’ Jethro had asked.

‘They are now,’ Scott had shrugged, ‘He's meant to be getting back tonight…’ his voice had trailed off, uncertain.

"I mean," Stiles continues, "If this is going to be monster circus then we need to get the 101 on all these creatures of the night."

"From who?" Scott asks. They're the only ones there, still waiting for the rest to turn up. Jethro and Lexi are cooing over cute dogs and cats in the next room, and Allison and Isaac are hanging around with the twins. Personally Jethro thinks they’ve actually ditched the freaky twins to go on a date, and are just making up excuses so as not to upset Scott, who apparently used to have a thing with Allison.

Nate's already half-way there and filled some fierce protective mother instinct for her last remaining pack member and younger sister.

"Well, actually I already did some research," Stiles grins, holding up his phone, "And I already have the lowdown on this monster."

"You do? Already?" Scott glares at him, "Well, why didn't you tell me?"

"I may or may not have phoned up and bribed Danny into helping me. Claimed it was for an extra credit project. I don't think he believed me. Why is that? Do I _not_ have a trustworthy face or something?" He sees their expressions, "Don't answer that. Anyway it's a Filipino ghoul that is a sort of vampire were dog."

Scott looks at him, dumbstruck, but resigned. By this point in their lives this shit is far too common to be a surprise anymore. He repeats the phrase, "A sort of vampire were dog..?" he asks, "Well is it a vampire or were dog?"

"Well it's meant to be weaker in sunlight, but isn't harmed by it. Some of them are meant to have wings. Others separate the top half from the bottom half. Like, literally the top half grows wings and flies off like some monster bat to feed and then returns to the bottom half. Apparently," Stiles pulls something from his pocket, "Salt or crushed garlic is meant to be fatal to them. Alternatively a whip made out of stingray's tails but I didn't have one available."

"A whip?" Scott repeats, eyebrows rising, "Stiles, what are you planning to do to this thing? Kill it?"

"Do you think it's going to leave peaceably if you just roar at it and flash your fangs?"

"It's called howling," Scott corrects, "And I don't know. This thing - it's got a right to live, doesn't it?"

"I don't want to argue ethics with you," Stiles shrugs, "But from what Danny found out this thing - it's not human. Not even close. It feeds by preying on infants and foetus’ and sucking their blood dry using a proboscis that comes out of their mouth. That means if it stays there are not only going to be dead people whose personalities went freaky, but there are going to be dead babies! We'll be like Calcutta! A dead baby everyday Scott, do you want that? We'll be swimming in dead babies!"

"Okay, okay," Scott raises his hands to calm him down, "I see your point. We kill it. When the others gets here. I'm sure the twins will be happy to rip something apart."

"I can't sit here and wait," Stiles is fidgety, pacing up and down and back again. Scott hisses at him to sit still, but he ignores him, too nervous, "Can't we go out there now?"

"We can't go out there alone. With no back up and demons possibly still around… it's not safe..."

"This worrying is bad for my health," Stiles babbles, "Seriously, my nerves are wracked. Wra-acked." he repeats the words. "Wrecked. This is a train-wreck." he shakes his head in frustration. "This town is doomed. It's a giant beacon that literally says 'hey, monsters come here and screw things up for the nice kids that live there'!”

"What are you talking about?" Lexi enters the room, frowning at Stiles.

"I don't know," Scott shrugs. So much for being his best friend. He's obviously on his own in this.

"Where are they?" Stiles looks at his watch. "They should have been here by now."

"They'll be here," Scott assures him.

But Stiles can't take it anymore. "That's it," he takes a step towards the door, "Come on Jethro, we're going to test out your monster detecting powers."

"Wah--" Stiles drags his new friend by the arm, tugging him towards the door.

"I'll go with you." Lexi trails after them brightly.

"Wha-no," Scott shakes his head. "Nobody is going anywhere."

"Try and stop me," Stiles snaps, and he isn't going to be deterred.

"If he stays here he's going to wear a hole in the floor," Lexi points out, "We'd all rather be out poking our noses around. It's what we do best," she grins, but if that was a joke or not, nobody laughs.

Scott looks torn, "Can't you wait five minutes?" he asks, desperately. "Just five minutes?"

Stiles hesitates in the doorway, internally debating with himself. "Dude," he turns back to Scott, "We've got people going mental and demons stalking the town. The least we can do is deal with this monster that's shown its shuck face."

"It's what face?" Scott furrows his brow. He looks so cute when he does that.

Stiles just grins, "Exactly.”

***

In hindsight this was a bad idea.

But Stiles thinks he'd prefer trekking through the woods than being stuck in that damn clinic a moment longer.

Jethro and Lexi wander aimlessly to his left, neither really sensing anything. Stiles drifts away from them, lost in his thoughts which all tumble over one another. It's like his mind, usually a brick wall of security and order has been knocked down into a pile. Not that it was much as a solid wall before, but he’s just running with this metaphor for now. Because each time he tries to build it back up something knocks it down again, and it's beginning to grow harder and harder to pick up the pieces.

Lost in thought, he doesn't notice the tree root until it's too late and his arms are already pin-wheeling to try and maintain his balance. He fails miserably, and tumbles forwards, slipping into a roll as the forest floor rolls away beneath him.

He comes to a halt at the bottom of a light incline, spitting out leaves and soil. He brushes off his hair, kicking angrily at a nearby tree log. He can't do anything right lately. He can't save Lydia. He can't even hunt an aswang properly.

He's not really much more than a burden.

The words might have been in his head, but they still sting and he shoves himself up. He stumbles slightly, feeling bruised, and sore. The hill isn't steep, but he managed to roll quite far. If there is one thing that can be said for him, Stiles does clumsy with skill.

He spits out another mouthful of dirt, tongue hanging out in a disgusted face as he mutters to himself. "Great going, Stiles," he sighs, "Not only are you in the woods, but you're in the woods alone. Where you regularly find dead bodies."

He sighs, starting up the hill when he hears it.

A low growl.

Stiles freezes, because they'd all assumed the hellhounds were gone, but they could have been wrong. "Jethro!" he calls out, "Lexi!"

The pair have wandered off. They obviously hadn't noticed his fall, and had lost him amongst the trees. They had to choose the most inconvenient time as well. Stiles stumbles forwards, glancing around. There is a snuffling sound from somewhere nearby and he tries to calm his racing heart. He's probably a walking basket of fear.

He's also an easy meal.

The bushes behind him rustle and he spins around, tripping over another inconvenient tree root that hooks at his legs. He crashes to the ground, just as something darts out of the bush.

He winces, arms flying up to defend his face.

Something cool flashes past and stops, and there is fur pressing against him and a musty scent. He's not dead yet, he thinks stupidly. He cautiously opens one eye, and then the other.

He lowers his arms, and takes in the creature standing over him.

It's a dog.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

Nothing monstrous. Nothing evil.

Just a dog.

And its tongue is out, lapping at Stiles' face with wet, sloppy drool dribbling down into his hair.

"Ugh," he shoves it off. It's cold, and he shivers slightly with left over adrenalin as he pushes himself up. The dog is a collie, and it wags its tail happily, tongue hanging out. "Really?" he asks, sighing, "What are you doing in the woods boy? It's not safe. A pretty boy - uh - girl like you shouldn't be out here." He rubs at her neck, and her tail wags. There is no collar.

She lets out a happy woof and Stiles sighs.

"So what are we going to do with you then, Lassie?"

***

"Dude, what is that?" Scott stares down at the black and white collie that sits by Stiles’ side, one ear at full prick and the other flopping over as it pants heavily, out of breath.

Stiles looks down at the dog, female if Scott's scent of smell is correct, and then grins up at his friend. "She's a stray," he shrugs, spreading his hands out, and one reaches down to stroke the collie. "I'm looking after her, aren't I girl?"

The dog lets out a bark of approval. There's something wrong about the sound, and it echoes slightly in Scott's ears.

"Dude why do you need a pet dog?" Scott asks, shaking the ringing from his ears.

"I know," Stiles sighs, "That's what I thought. After all I've got you." He ignores Scott's indignant squawk, "I just thought, it would be good to have some company, and apparently animals are sensitive to supernatural stuff. It might be able to help with our ghost situation."

The collie let out a happy bark and bounded towards Scott. He leaned down to fuss her and she darts away, tail wagging playfully. "What's her name?"

"Uh - I don't know. There's no collar. You name her - no wait, don't. She'll end up being called Delta or something."  
"Delta, huh?" Scott kind of likes it, "You look like a Delta, don't you girl? It's a Greek letter. Like Alpha, Beta and Omega. Alpha, Beta, and then you, you can be the Delta, how do you like that huh?"

"Oh god, he's started cooing," Stiles mutters, throwing his arms up in disbelief as the dog rolls over, baring her belly and almost grinning at Scott as he fusses her.

"She's so cute," Lexi appears, with Jethro behind her. Down the slope, Allison is trying to work out how to load up a rifle with salt and garlic while Isaac stalks around her, sniffing at the air. Nate is making her way up from where the car is parked. From the car it’s about sixty metres or so up an open slop, with bare barked trees reaching their leafy hands into the sky to where Scott, Stiles, Jethro and Lexi stand.

"Oh, so _now_ you decide to turn up!" Stiles waves his arms dramatically, glaring at the two as if they had done something to personally offend him, "Where were you when the monster dog turned up, huh?"

Jethro shrugs, unbothered, "Monster detecting," he answers, "No, seriously, dude I thought I had something, but then it was gone. And then you were gone and we came right back."

"Monster dog?" Scott sits back, and the collie - Delta - wags her tail. "You thought she was a monster dog?"

"She crept up on me!" Stiles flails indignantly.

"Well, you guys look like you were _really_ successful," Nate sounds fed up, sarcasm drifting towards them as she strides up. "You found a dog. Who--" she falls silent as Delta turns to sniff the air, and then bolts away.

"No, no wait!" Stiles lunges for her, but the black and white collie is gone, vanished into the trees. "Great," he kicks at a lump of dirt. "You scared her off!" he accuses Nate, who just happened to be in his line of sight at that moment.

"I didn't do anything!" she looks insulted.

"Can you guys stop disputing, please?" Scott sighs.

"Ooo," Stiles seems to be trying to make things hard for him, "Disputing. What is that - your word of the day?"

"Guys--" Scott tries again. He really doesn't think he's cut out for this alpha job, not with this pack. God, to defeat Deucalion, all he really needed to do was leave him with Stiles in a mood and on no medication for a day. The so called 'demon wolf' would be running for the hills by the end of it.

"Where are the twins?" Stiles asks abruptly, peering around the short blonde girl to Allison and Isaac at the bottom of the slope. In the distance the gravel dirt road winds off across the reserve, usually only used by rangers.

"They split town," Scott sighs. “They wanted out and so they got out. Apparently some of their old ‘acquaintances’ were heading their way, so they left. At least they’re decent enough to try to keep them away from here.”

Nate shrugs helplessly, adding, "We were ages trying to check out their apartment but it’s pretty clear that they're gone. That's why we took so long."

Isaac hops out of the truck, below, obviously able to hear them. "So, it looks like it's just us then," he grins, shouting up at them, and pulling a backpack from the front seat. Scott watches for a moment as Isaac pulls out a crossbow, accidently knocks himself on the head with it, and then cautiously puts it down, leaving Allison to look at it.

"And the dog. Well, it would be except the dog left," Stiles glares at Nate.

"It wasn't my fault! She ran like--" Nate stops suddenly. "She ran. She ran."

"Yeah. And?" Jethro asks, frowning, "So the dog runs--" he stops. Scott looks at him, the teen having cut out mid-sentence.

Jethro looks like he’s choking on something. He is shaking, as if suddenly really cold. His gaze has grown distant, and a deep colour is seeping under his veins.

And his usually brown eyes are a bright, vivid green.

"Dogs can sense danger earlier than humans," Scott blurts out, because they should have realised, because if the dog is their first signal, then Jethro is their second signal.

“Jeth!” Lexi stumbles around, grabbing his shaking arms. Stiles grabs the other, but the dark haired boy doesn’t appear to notice them. “Jethro!” the thirteen year old shouts, blue eyes wide, “Snap out of it!”

He doesn’t. Instead he seems to drift further away.

Lexi swears.

Nate looks scandalised, "Lexi!" she hisses at her sister, despite the inopportune moment.

“Guys!” Isaac calls from down the slope, “Guys what’s wrong?”

“Get up here!” Scott shouts back, “Get Jethro back to the car,” he instructs Lexi, and she’s not his beta, but she still obeys, tugging the boy along. He follows, still in a daze. Nate stands nearby looking helpless, desperate to do something but not sure what to do.

“He did this before,” Lexi says to him, “Before when the demon--“

“Don’t,” Jethro murmurs suddenly, and his neck flushes with the blood that runs green under the skin. It reminds Scott of the black in his veins when he takes away pain.

And there is another part that reminds him of Jackson. Not the usual asshole Jackson.

Kanima Jackson.

“Don’t. Not a hunt, not a hunt--“ Jethro mumbles, and Lexi casts Scott and Nate a helpless glance, before tugging him backwards with a stronger force.

“He’s inside its head,” Nate realises suddenly, “He’s reading the monster’s aura. Which mean--“

“Behind you!” Isaac shouts suddenly, half-way up the slope. “Guys, it’s behind you!”

Stiles spins first, and overbalances, flailing slightly. There is a snarl from behind them and Scott spins on the spot. As he does so he shifts, and by the time he faces the higher ground his teeth are bared in a snarl and his eyes are flashing alpha red.

Behind them a woman stands on the slope, warily. Her lips are curled at them, showing deformed teeth. Her hair is dark in comparison to her pale skin and her round, almost cat-like eyes.

She's feral; Scott can see that straight away. She has the same madness the omega werewolf he once saw had. If there is intelligence there (and there must be because from what Jethro and Lexi had said, she obviously poses as a human) it is hidden beneath a mindless hunger and animal instinct.

His claws slide out and he snarls, but she doesn't appear deterred, instead lunging for him.

Stiles dives to one side, while Scott leaps to meet her, and his claws actually enclose around the pale skin before she pushes out with her hands, shoving him back. She’s strong, and he stumbles back two metres or so.

Nate leaps forwards, and her brilliant red eyes are more of a strong burnt orange now. She swipes across with one arm, forcing the creature to duck back, and then she kicks out. For a small girl she packs a punch.

Isaac appears at Scott’s side, assessing the monster, “So what now?” he asks.

Scott straightens himself, and stands braced and ready. “Now we kill it.” He says determinedly. “I hope.” And he lunges.

Nate has her fists curled up, as if she is going to punch the creature. She lashes out, and scores a hit, landing a clenched fist onto the woman’s head. It snaps back and she shakes it off, unbothered. Nate’s fighting skills are quite impressive, as she lands a spinning kick.

The woman sneers, cat pupils barely slits as she grabs the blonde’s leg before the kick can land. Using the wolf’s own momentum she spins Nate’s small body over and to one side.

Nate lands heavily with a grunt, but seems unhurt as Scott barrels into the creature. In comparison to Nate, he has no finesse, lashing out with claws that score a hit across the aswang’s chest. She flinches back, dark hair flying around as she snarls at him, red gums and a deep black maw.

She lashes out, one arm flashing around, and Scott ducks under it, stumbling backwards. Half-turning to Isaac who circles warily, he shouts “Where’s Allison?”

“Look out!” Isaac at least has his eyes on the monster, lunging forwards and knocking Scott out the way as something flies out towards him. Whatever it is, Isaac catches the brunt of the blow and he twitches as if in pain.

“Isaac? Isaac?” Scott shoves the beta off of him, and Isaac is still breathing, eyes wild but body as limb as a kitten. “Isaac!” he shouts.

The beta coughs something that sounds like ‘go’ but it could have been ‘duck’ and Scott throws himself to one side, just as something whizzes over where he has been crouched.

The aswang snarls, hands down by her side and mouth wide. Her mouth is black, and she then opens it wider and he sees the mouth itself isn't actually black. She actually has a black tongue, and as her mouth opens it lashes out.

It’s like a whip, swinging from side to side and Scott rolls backwards as it slams down on the ground near him. Across the other side he can see Nate shoving herself to her feet.

Stiles was kind of right to call it a proboscis. If Isaac’s shaking form is anything to go by its tainted with a mild paralytic, and now they’re two wolves and a human down.

There is a blur as Stiles, being the daring idiot he is, runs towards the creature. At the last minute he drops to his back, skidding past and hitting out at her legs. He catches the aswang behind the knees and she goes down, as Stiles, his shirt half-way up his back from his skid, rolls to the side.

Scott leaps forwards again, pinning down the aswang’s writhing limbs, but he can’t pin down the tongue. It catches him like a punch to the head, knocking him to the right and he feels himself hit a tree with a loud thump. He groans, and his face feels tingly. His whole skin feels like he has pins and needles.

The aswang regains her standing ability, and Nate deflects the tongue with a clothing covered arm, lashing out with a left hook to the stomach. She’s kind of hot, Scott thinks in a paralytic induced daze as he tries to shove himself up. He meets Isaac’s gaze, and the beta is half crawling away, collapsing after half a metre and rolling onto his back, sweat across his forehead as the wolf tries to burn away the venom.

Scott lets out a mumbled groan. He's a werewolf, and he heals fast. It should fade, but then again the Kanima venom didn't exactly work well with werewolves.

“Shoot it!” Stiles somehow managed to roll several metres away down the slope. Allison is fumbling with a rifle and judging by the panicked looks over her shoulder she’s got a friendly ghost showing up at an inopportune moment, taking advantage of the lack of salt barriers. “Shoot it!” Stiles cries out again, “ _Allison_ , shoot it! I don’t care what with, you shoot that freaking thing!”

"It's jammed!" Allison shouts from further down the forest. “It’s--“ she sounds desperate, and she tosses aside the rifle, grabbing what looks like a garlic clove, her crossbow and her knives.

Scott groans, trying to work feeling back into his limbs. This should be easy. It's just one monster. They’re a pack of wolves. Two packs. Four wolves.

It's actually kind of pathetic, he thinks. He and Isaac are both paralysed, and further down the slope Lexi is trying to snap Jethro out of his gaze, casting frantic glances up at where Nate is still fighting.

Not for long; the woman snarls, black tongue flickering but in the end it’s a slap across the face from her arms that sends Nate crashing to one side heavily, leaving only Stiles half-lying there.

Scott grits his teeth, and already the paralytic is fading. Not quickly enough as Nate curls up into a ball, shivers wracking her body as the venom kicks in.

The pounding footsteps reverberate up the hill, and Allison is half-way up there, Chinese ring daggers in hand. Her gaze is focussed on where Stiles lies sprawled on the ground.

Scott's breathing hitches as he spots his friend. Stiles is scrambling backwards along the leaf strewn ground, and the aswang is advancing towards him, eyes alight. Her tongue flickers out as if she is almost tasting her meal.

Allison is moving fast but she's not going to get there, he can see that already. He attempts one more last ditch effort to move, and one arm lifts a few centimetres of the ground before dropping. He can see Nate curled up, blinking desperately. Lexi is calming down Jethro, who is beginning to emit green sparks of energy into the air.

"You don't want to eat me," Stiles is protesting, "I taste like skin and bone. Skin and _bone_." even in the face of death he still comes up with the strangest shit as the woman advances. Her fingers curl into claws, all semblance of humanity falling away as her pale skin wrinkles. She snarls, and her tongue lashes out.

Then the monster spasms. Stiles shoves himself backwards, away from it, and Scott slides back against the tree, silently snarling at it. The woman's body twists and then her eyes roll back in her head, skin pale and veins a deep black. She lets out a gurgling scream.

"Did you shoot it?" Stiles shouts at Allison. “Did you--“ he finally manages to get his feet under him and he lurches to his feet, clutching his side. There is blood trickling from there, and somehow in the confusion Scott must have missed the moment the monster sunk her claws into him.

"No!" Allison skids to a halt, next to where Scott can now see Isaac has fallen, deep gouges healing across one shoulder and the beta half-up as the paralysis fades, "No I--"

The monster falls to its knees and then with a final gurgle collapses face first on the ground in front of Stiles.

There's a moment of silence, as Scott looks up to the small figure behind the body. Her red hair catches the light, and he thinks that all she needs is for a wind to dramatically lift it slightly, blowing the strawberry blonde locks to one side.

Lydia grins at them triumphantly, standing slightly lopsidedly and seemingly smaller than ever. The creature on the ground writhes, and there is a stiletto buried in its head, and another in Lydia's hand as she cocks her head, eyes sparkling.

"So: what did I miss?"


	30. Counting Bodies Like Sheep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably my favourite chapter in the whole story. I think I've said that before, but this is the sort of interaction I always want to see in crossovers and never get, because usually the Winchesters are too busy trying to kill things. I think they're too scared of Lydia though in this fic.  
> Peter gets a sassy section next chapter though and that's pretty good too.

"Oh my god I'm so happy you're okay! You're back! This is amazing! I need to bake a cake or something!"

"Stiles, you can't bake."

"Then I would have gotten Allison to make a cake or something."

Scott doesn't think Stiles has shut up for a minute since Lydia had gotten back. He had barely been able to sit still while Allison patched up the claw marks in his side, brimming with energy as if her very presence revitalised him.

Lydia herself was composed, but a small smile lingered at the corners of her lips as they gathered around the jeep.

The aswang had no sooner fallen than Allison had succeeded in reaching them, and straddled the fallen creature, yanking the head up by the hair and stuffing the creature's mouth with what looked like several cloves of garlic, and then stabbed it again for good measure. She had tossed a clove at Stiles.

"To ward off any more monsters that think skin and bones make a good snack," she had said with a grimace.

Then she had turned around and embraced Lydia.

"Glad to know you care so much about me," Isaac had been muttering, finally standing. He looked like a robot, awkward and stiff. He looked as if a weak wind could blow him over, which it did when Lexi shoved past towards Nate. Isaac staggered to the side.

Jethro was sucking in great gasps of air, as if freed from whatever trauma he had been under. Stiles was more concerned with the reappearance of Lydia, so Scott somehow managed to make his way, limbs weak and lifeless, towards the teen.

"You okay?" he had asked.

"Would you believe me if I said yes?" Jethro gasped, eyes wide and most definitely brown. His heart blipped. He wasn't okay. He knew it too, "I was in its head," he had whispered, "I was - it was nothing - just blood and kill and --" he took a shuddering breath, and Scott wrapped one comforting arm around him, the pair sitting on the hillside, knees to their chests as they waited for the others to get a move on.

They hadn't made it far. Only to the jeep parked down on the gravel road. Scott, Nate and Isaac are all sitting down, still recovering from the venom. Lydia is standing, eyes sparkling.

At her side something black and white twirls around, tail wagging like mad.

"Delta?" Lexi is the one who ducks to greet the dog. She bounds over, tongue lolling out, "Where've you been, girl?"

"The dog told us where you were," Lydia looks like she wants to pat the dog but at the same time seems unnerved by something. "So while I was gone you - got a dog?"

Stiles gives a helpless shrug. The wide grin doesn't leave his face. "She kind of adopted us. Then she ran and we thought she had left for good."

Lydia still looks unimpressed, almost as if they had replaced her with the dog.

"Wait a sec?" Nate rubs tiredly at her eyes, "You said 'us'?" Next to her Jethro is curled up, staring into the distance. He swallows, nervously and seemingly slightly scared. Scott wonders what the monster's head must have been like, and then decides he doesn't want to know.

"Yeah," he agrees with Nate, "What do you mean by 'us'?"

"Us," Lydia shrugs, "Well the demons kidnapped me and then I got rescued. By hunters."

"Hunters?" Lexi and Nate say in sync. Both look scared, and Nate casts Allison a nervous glance.

Lydia shrugs, "They're brothers. They rescued me after I'd been at the mansion for less than a day," she gestures to Delta, and then finally actually ducks down and cautiously holds out a hand for the dog to sniff. "You're lucky. The hunters I was with almost shot her on principle. One of them had a - thing - about dogs."

"Wait, wait _wait_ \--" Stiles gesticulates wildly. "You were rescued after a day? But you were kidnapped _weeks_ ago."

Lydia's lip is downturned as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "It wasn't safe," she says shortly. "Their plan, not mine. The demons wanted me for something and it was safer I wasn't in contact with you guys."

"And now?" Scott asks, "What's different now? They’ve just dumped you here and left!"

"Now they have a bit more information," Lydia shrugs, "Some contact of theirs called 'Crowley' showed up, and so they decided to drop me off."

"You still should have found some way of letting us know."

She purses her lips together. "I should have." is all she will say. "Anyway, tell me," she shakes her hair and it cascades loosely down her back. She's not wearing shoes, Scott thinks suddenly, because the stilettos (and seriously, who wears heels in the woods?) are still buried into the smoking carcass at the top of the hill. "So who's been looking after Prada while I was gone? And what did you tell my parents?"

Everybody looks at Stiles expectantly, as if he holds the answers.

Scott hides a grin, and thinks that for the first time in a while, their pack is together again. His gaze finds Nate's from where she is pressed against her sister and she grins back.

Her eyes flash red, but just for a moment, Scott could have sworn they were glowing a soft, golden yellow.

***

Nate is worried about Jethro.

Ever since he had his panic attack in the woods, losing himself momentarily in the madness of the aswang. She had been worried that he might vanish in a flare of light, or drop into some sort of primal rage.

He's quieter, since yesterday, and she thinks this will be good for him. The rest of the local pack talk about lacrosse all the time, and apparently the season is actually ending now, or possibly even finished, mid-April, but that means the field is free and they can use it.

Isaac has a wolfish smirk plastered onto his face and Allison is practically glued to his side-whispering in his ear. The pair are ridiculously sappy over each other, and if Nate was younger and more immature she would have been making vomiting motions behind her hand. As it is, Lexi is obviously more sensible that she was at thirteen, and just averts her gaze calmly. The golden-eyed beta laughs at whatever Allison had said as they stroll through the school towards the lacrosse pitch.

Allison seems lighter than before, as if a weight has vanished from her shoulder. Lydia being back is a relief for all of them, even if it is apparently going to bring demons with her. The strawberry-blonde is currently with her parents, with whatever story Stiles and his dad had managed to weave. Nate has no idea how they do it, but it even sounds believable. Maybe a little far-fetched, but still believable. Lydia, having called in the one murder in the woods, had been sent away for her own protection as the Sheriff believed the killer was still around. Naturally no-one was told for theirs and Lydia's safety.

People just ate it up, none the wiser.

Nate is examining the lacrosse stick that Isaac has passed to her earlier. Jethro had shoved his into his backpack. Nate's smells like Scott, and she feels weirdly comforted by that. It’s weird, because she is feeling more and more like Scott is her alpha, when he’s _not_. She’s her own alpha, and she shouldn’t answer so easily to Scott as if she is a member of his pack.

She’s not. They _aren’t_.

She is just sniffing it again when she hears something, and she pauses, head tilted to one side.

Her senses are brilliant. Strong. They've always been like this though - she's never had to go through a bitten wolf's super-sensory hour of agony at the hypersensitivity of the smells, noises and tastes around them.

She's been in tune with them for all her life, and for that reason a part of her is always tuned to danger. The dying of a car engine spluttering to a stop doesn't scream danger, but the bitter tang that she can smell in the air does.

She comes to a sudden stop as a side door opens and two men emerge, thanking the principle profusely for her help. They spin around, gazes surveying the corridor and Nate freezes, feeling like she is at the centre of attention. Their gazes pass over her, but the other four have paused to stare at her.

"Isaac," Nate whispers. She knows the beta can hear her. "Those two - they're hunters."

Scott's beta is besides her in an instance. Despite being the only wolf in Scott's pack, he's not the head beta. Allison and Stiles take that position.

"How do you know?" Lexi freezes, tense and trying not to look scared.

"They smell like…" Nate swallows.

"Like death," Isaac finishes for her.

"Excuse me?"

Jethro looks up startled as one of the men stands there, smiling down at them. "Uh - yeah?" he asks, staring at them.

"Can you point us towards the reception?" the man asks.

Jethro blinks, dazed, and it is Isaac who fakes a smile and points down the corridor, "Left up the stairs and then another left half-way down that corridor and you're there." he says, staring at them.

And for a moment, just a moment, his eyes catch the light and flash a bright golden yellow.

Nate's heart sinks.

The hunter looks dazed, but the other one takes control, "Thank you," he says, grabbing onto his partner's elbow and manoeuvring the shorter man away.

"Crap," Allison says, staring after them, and then a line of French falls off her tongue that Nate can't understand, but she's pretty sure they are insults.

The hunters get all the way to the stairs and half-way down the next corridor before their composure breaks. "Did you see-?"

"Yellow eyes. That doesn't mean--"

"She said betas--"

"What the hell was that kid doing wearing a scarf indoors--?"

"If they are wolves they can probably still hear us."

The voices die down and the five of them are left standing there, wide-eyed. Then they all start talking at once.

"Phone Scott."

"Scott's not answering."

"Phone Stiles."

"What makes you think I have Stiles' number?" Isaac curls his lip a little in disgust. Allison sighs and grabs the phone out of his hands, scrolling through his contacts. Evidently Isaac does have Stiles' number, despite the pairs' seeming rivalry, for Nate can hear the phone ring.

"Stiles?" Allison asks, worried brown eyes flashing up to the three wolves and a who-knows-what as the familiar voice answers. "We've got a problem."

***

"Where have you been?" Melissa stares at him strangely.

"I told you. At the loft." Scott shrugs it off, pulling off his jacket as Stiles trips into the house behind him. Stiles probably realises he’s not welcome though, because he makes some excuse and vanishes upstairs.

"So I hear Lydia is back," Melissa says, almost conversationally, "That's good."

She doesn't sound happy. Scott straightens, and stares at her, "Yeah," he says, "She came back yesterday. We - you were at work."

"I'm beginning to feel," Melissa says quietly, "That I'm the last to know." She sounds disconnected. "Where is Lydia now? And where is the rest of the pack?"

"At the lacrosse field," Scott shrugs, "They're relaxing - having fun."

"And you haven't been - stalking demons?" she is wary, and almost… scared? Scott swallows, because he hates having his mom worry so much.

"No!" he emphasises his point, "No, that's stupid." he shakes his head.

Melissa's lips are thin as she nods, as if suddenly understanding him, "That's why apparently you fought a - an aswang? Is that how you say it?"

"How did you hear about that?" Scott glances around, even though he knows it’s only him and his mother, "Mom, who told you about that?"

"Nate," Melissa says, "At least someone thinks to tell me what's going on."

Scott clenches his fists, and grits his teeth. He wants to knock the British girl six ways into next week, but he knows she was only doing the right thing. And he's not sure where he stands with the blonde now. She's an alpha - at least she should be - of her own pack. But the longer she stays here the more she defers to his leadership. "I'm sorry," he spins around to face his mom. "I'm sorry, I just--" he trails off because Melissa is still shaking her head.

"No," she says, "No, I can't do this. I can't be here, worrying--" her voice breaks slightly, "Look I need space. I need to clear my head."

"What?" Scott frowns in confusion.

"Look I just. Need space. I need you and Isaac out of the house for a while. I need to remember what life is life without a werewolf for a son."

"Are you kicking us out?" Scott asks, but what he really means is 'are you kicking me out?'

"Yes," she says, sternly, determinedly, and her voice is thick with emotion. She's stressing out over this, Scott can see. The worry is driving her crazy, and he can't help but feel both guilty but slightly happy that his mother cares for him that much, " _Yes_ , I am telling you to get out. Stay with Stiles or Allison or another member of your little _pack_." She stops, choking on the word. "I am _sick_ of dealing with werewolves!" She looks around, casting her gaze for something to focus on, "I need to get to work but when - pack your bags. When I get home I want you _gone_."

"Mom, no wait - " Scott tries to grab her arm but she flinches away.

"I just need space," she says, hands up as if surrendering to him, "I need you out of the house."

"But--"

She shakes her head, turning away from his words. She grabs her bag, drapes her coat over her arm, and determinedly doesn't look at him.

The door slams shut with a resounding finality.

For a moment Scott stands there in a daze, feeling like he's just been paralysed again.

There are footsteps as Stiles thunders down the stairs. He pauses at the bottom, hair slightly dishevelled and holding a phone, "We've got another problem," he says, urgently. Then he pauses, too used to Scott to not notice that something is wrong, "Dude, what's up? You looked like someone kicked your puppy."

"My mom kicked me out," Scott whispers, "My mom kicked me out."

Stiles opens his mouth and then does a remarkable impression of a fish. "I hate to say this," he says eventually, "But it might have been a good time."

"How can you say that--?" Scott spins around, brows furrowing.

Stiles backs up two stairs in alarm, "It might keep her safe," he spits out, ducking back down in a twitchy manner, "I got a call from Isaac. There are two men in town poking around, asking questions. They were checking out the school when the gang got there. Talking about 'yellow eyes'."

"Hunters," Scott breaths.

" _Yes_! Hunters!" Stiles hisses, "Now come on - let's get your bags packed! Look, if you and Isaac lay low at the loft, then you're not going to get yourself shot full of wolfsbane - got it?"

Scott sways for a moment, blinking.

"Did you hear anything I just said?" Stiles asks, "Hunters. In town! Allison says she doesn't know them. So for now we should try to--"

"Shut up a minute." Scott holds up one hand, and Stiles obediently quietens down.

But only for a moment. Seconds later he opens his mouth again.

"What? What is it? Your wolfy senses tingling?"

"I think they're already here," Scott ducks forwards, brushing aside a curtain.

There is a large black car parked outside.

"They're just sitting there." Stiles appears next to him. "Maybe they're friendly."

Scott swallows down his emotions. He's an alpha. He clenches his hands, letting his claws curl into his palms and composing himself. "We should go out and talk to them," he decides, "I'm going to go and speak to them. They have no reason to kill us."

Stiles winces, closing his eyes, "Out of all the bad ideas you've had (and believe me, you've had a lot) this has to rank up at around number five? Maybe even three. You want to talk to the men who may or may not want to kill you."

"Yes." Scott is already half-way to the front door.

Stiles' voice follows him into the passage. "Well you don't have to go far. They're already getting out of the car." Stiles clenches his jaw into a mix between a grimace and a grin. He does a sort of half-bow, gesturing Scott forwards. "So let's go an welcome them in."

***

"I can't take much more of this," Dean had confided in Sam during one of their gas stop breaks. Sam had hid a smile, "Dude! It's not funny! That banshee-girl is going to be the death of me!"

"I _can_ hear you, you know," Lydia says primly from the back seat. She tilts her head to one side, and Sam can see it in the mirror. She looks unimpressed.

"Good," Dean had put the car into gear with unnecessary force. "I can't wait until we can get rid of you."

"Well I can't wait until I'm away from your pleasant company either." Lydia responses smartly. Sam's honestly not sure what she and Dean have going on. The pair exchange insults like presents, and neither give an inch. Their banter is amusing if nothing else, Sam had thought, sitting back to enjoy the journey.

They had dropped Lydia off at her parent's house. "We're staying in town," Sam had shouted out the window, "We'll check in, okay?"

Lydia hadn't even been looking at them as she had flounced off across the street, "I don't need a babysitter," she had drawled, as they moved off to find a motel. For a moment Sam had doubted letting her go off alone, when the past few weeks they had spent keeping her safe, but she knows this territory. Better than they do.

Castiel was meant to be meeting them at the town, but according to Dean who was the only one in contact with the angel, since Dean's number was the only one Castiel had on speed dial, his pimp angel ride had given out and so he was catching a bus. According to Dean, he might be a while since he had some other issues to deal with involving his 'angel flock' as Sam's brother had christened them.

Now their unobtrusive black car was parked outside a house of one 'Melissa McCall' and Sam and Dean were totally not spying on the kids through the window.

"We can be jailed for this," Sam says, adjusting the focus.

"Give it here then," Dean yanks the binoculars out of his hands, leaning to one side and squinting slightly, "It's only the two of them."

"Which ones?"

"The kid with the uneven jaw and the lanky one. They're talking. The one is on the phone. No - wait - he's finished."

"Look, let's just go and talk to them," Sam shrugs, "No guns, no knives, let's just talk."

"Fine," Dean grits his teeth, being stubborn. He slams the door open, and Sam didn't know that was possible but Dean manages it. He hides a sigh as Dean tucks his gun into his waistband, and then straightening his jacket looks like he's about to storm the front garden.

That's about when the door opens and two kids barrel out. Sam steps around the car to join his brother and both kids skid to a halt, eyes wide with the look of being caught out, as if they're doing something wrong.

"They're tall," the lankier kid says, his hair brown and spiky. "I mean, they're _tall_ tall. Isaac didn't say they were that tall."

Sam clears his throat, "Do you live here?" he asks, gesturing to the house with a grin.

"Christo," the lanky kid says automatically. If nothing else it confirms their suspicions that these two kids are part of Lydia's pack.

"Gesundheit," his companion replies automatically, as if his friend makes a habit of babbling out weird words.

Sam and Dean just raise their eyebrows. "Christo what the fuck kid?" Dean blinks, looking from one to the other. "You some sort of rookie hunter wanna-be?" he sounds disgusted.

"N-no... aren't demons meant to flinch at the name of God?" he looks put out that his research was obviously wrong.

Dean laughs and elbows his brother. "Remember when we were that innocent Sammy?"

Sam pulls a face and answers the lanky kid whose face is pulled into an unasked question, "Christo works well enough with low level demons but once we started running into demons who could walk on holy ground and ones that didn't flinch under holy water we gave it up. Now we usually stick to just the holy water."

The kid perks up. He can't be older than eighteen. "Scott, go and fetch our holy water!" He even rubs his hands together a little for emphasis.

"Stiles - _what_ holy water?" Scott frowns, "We don't _have_ any holy water. And if you're talking about that clear mountain spring water - you used it in fourth grade to grow the magic beans someone sold you for a packet of M &M's"

"And I'm still disappointed that it didn't grow into a giant beanstalk. Even if they did produce beans. But that's not the point," Stiles turns to the brothers, "How do we know you're not demons?"

Both Winchesters are really fed up at this point.

"Well you could always stab us with a demon killing knife and see if we die," Dean grouches.

It is Sam who relents and pulls down his shirt collar to show the two teenagers the star shaped pentagram encircled by flames. The tattoo is on the left side of his chest over his heart, "Anti-possession," he lets his shirt slip back up, "Newly redone as well." Next to him Dean looks guilty and shifts uneasily but then it's gone. Sam sighs. "You guys happy?"

They nod in sync. They remind Sam a lot of himself and Dean, if they were the same age. Their movements are weirdly co-ordinated, as if they've spent loads of time, years if not a decade or more being friends.

"We're - uh - looking for the pack that live here," Sam says, "I take it you're Scott right?" he gestures at the kid with the uneven jaw.

"Yeah," Scott nods, looking wary.

"Scott McCall. McCall?" Dean frowns, disappointment tinging his tone, "Not Howard?"

"Dean," Sam's warns his brother. Scott just looks confused.

"No," he shakes his head, "Why would it be Howard?"

"You know!" Dean grins, "Michael Fox's 'Teen Wolf'. He plays a guy called Scott Howard. Best friend Rupert--"

"Rupert," the lanky kid snorts at the name, "That's a stupid name."

"And you are?" Dean growls at him.

The kid grins infuriatingly. "Stiles Stilinski," he even sticks out a hand to shake but both brothers ignore it.

"Oh, you're the Sheriff's son," Sam's older brother says dismissively, "The one with the funny name..." Dean pulls a face as if to try and pronounce it so Sam interrupts.

"Don't try," he advises.

"Stiles," said teen repeats, looking worried, "My name is _Stiles_ ," he even emphasises it. It's kind of cute really.

"That's not what it says on your birth certificate," the older hunter smirks smugly.

Stiles' jaw drops open. "How... how did you get a hold of my birth certificate?"

"Hacked county records," is the smug reply.

The alpha kid - Scott - clears his throat, "Umm - can we get some names from you? And maybe why you're here? Poking your noses into stuff that doesn't concern you. We're not a threat to anyone."

"I'd say eight murders concerns us, kid," Dean tilts his head to one side. "And we know you're not a threat. You're just kids." Stiles look insulted by this but Scott just looks relieved.

"I'm Sam," the younger Winchester smiles, "Sam Winchester. And my brother," he elbows Dean, ignoring the yelp of complaint, "Dean. We're scoping this town since it's currently supernatural central."

Stiles looks between them for a moment. "You're looking for a demon, right?" He asks eventually.

Dean nods, "Why? Is there one here?"

Stiles nods emphatically, "There's this woman, blonde hair, and her eyes flare green, like almost neon green, but a sort of puke coloured…"

One of the hunters steps forwards and Stiles stops, staring at the alarm in his eyes. "Green?" Dean asks him, "No, the demon we're after is a yellow-eyed bastard called Belial or an orange-eyed dude called Malphas or even worse a black-eyed bitch called Abaddon… the green…"

"Well the yellow-eyed one has been around," Stiles hums, but both brother are distracted, turning to whisper to each other.

"Crowley said the green-eyed demon was called Dantalion," Sam whispers, "Holy crap we're dead."

"That's five. That's five already."

"Five already what?" Scott asks.

"Five demons out of the seven have risen."

Both teenagers look confused, "What?" Scott frowns. Then he shakes his head decisively, "No, look, we're obviously dealing with the same thing. So either you can leave us to deal with this and you go, or you can work with us on this. But you have to agree not to shoot any of us. We've dealt with hunters before."

"Like Argent?" Dean prompts.

"Argent?" Stiles babbles, "You've met the Argents?"

"Yeah. We met Chris on a hunt. He was hanging out with uh - what's his name - Hale?"

"Derek isn't around."

"Derek?"

"Yeah. Beta werewolf who can outcreep Edward Cullen on a good day."

"We were talking about Peter."

"Peter?"

"Yeah--"

"Sam? Dean?"

The four of them pause in their conversation, turning to blink at the strawberry blonde who is standing on the sideway in heels, looking smart in her own clothes for the first time in weeks. She stares at them. "What are you doing?" she looks to the hunters, slightly indignantly.

"You know them?" Stiles stumbles over himself as he staggers backwards.

"Yeah," Lydia looks unimpressed, "They're the pair who rescued me." she narrowed her eyes at Dean, "Don't tell me you went behind my back to check out my friends."

"What?" Dean looks un-guilty. "They're werewolves. We have to check this sort of stuff!"

Stiles gapes at him, "So what? You knew about us already! Lydia told you all about us!"

Sam shrugs, "Just basics. Which is why we wanted to meet you ourselves."

"Thanks for recuing Lydia," Scott seems to feel obliged to say.

There's a bit of an awkward pause as the five of them stand there, so Sam looks around, "So if we're going to talk about the situation here we're going to need to meet the rest of your pack."

Dean frowns, "Good point. Where's the rest of your pack?"

"Isaac is teaching them how to play lacrosse."

 "So what?" Dean asks, "You're the local Scooby Doo gang?"

Scott's jaw drops open and Stiles nearly chokes on his indignation. "Scooby Doo?" he demands, and then actually pauses to consider it, "You're Shaggy," he addressed Scott.

"No I'm not. You're Shaggy." Scott complains. "I'm Fred."

"Nu uh," Stiles shakes his head, "I take it back. You're Scooby Doo."

Scott looks like he wants to punch him in the arm, "Nate is Velma," Scott says, "Lydia is Daphne."

"And Allison is Fred? Making the plans--" Stiles can't stop himself from grinning, "Wait, wait, wait. Who does that make Scrappy Doo?"

The two of them are grinning like idiots. "Isaac." Their voices say together and they make weak attempts to hide their wide grins with their hands. Lydia rolls her eyes heavenwards, as if praying for mercy from an absent god.

"What is lacrosse anyway?" Dean frowns, still stuck on that point.

"Only the best game ever," Stiles says, "But to be honest I've been thinking of taking up running. I'm good at running. I'm a genius at it actually, generally with both arms up, screaming as something nasty and evil chases me."

Sam acknowledges this with a shrug. Dean is still frowning. "Why not basketball?" he asks, and Sam recognises his tone, internally groaning.

"Basketball?" Scott sounds confused. Lydia rolls her eyes heavenwards. It's only been three weeks, but she already knows them so well.

Dean grins, a wide shit-eating smirk. "Yeah, y'know. Like Michael J Fox."

Scott stares at him dumbly for a moment. "No." he shakes his head in sudden realisation, "No, please. I haven't seen that film - can you stop referencing it?"

"I don't know. Does your werewolf prowess help your sporting ability?"

"He's got a point."

"Shut up, Stiles!"


	31. The Rhythm of the War Drums

He stalks the loft, noting the various changes to it. It's certainly more homely than when he left, and Derek's touch has been all but erased from it under a layer of books, paper, clothes and muddy shoes. Peter Hale mentally sneers at the mess as he stalks around it, occasionally stopping and sniffing at something that catches his interest.

The usual scents of the Pack waft around him: the abused beta that stinks of sweat and something musty, the hyperactive best friend that smells like books and medication and… huh… that was odd, because if Peter didn't know better he’d almost have said that Stiles smells like a fox. The huntress is obviously still hanging around, smelling like string wax and metal, silver he thinks. He also catches Scott's scent of motor oil, and all manners of furry animals including his pack. Lydia's scent is faint, old, and he should probably feel guilty but he just feels empty.

They don't know he's the one who grabbed the girl, staying out of sight and throwing her to the demon. And if he plays this right they won't ever know. He might be the Creepy Uncle Peter who rises from the dead, but he can at least be helpful some of the time.

Not that kidnapping Lydia for the demons was helpful. To them at least. To him it held the promise of power and his well-deserved status as an alpha returned to him. Nothing the hell spawn had asked of him had been difficult exactly. It was easy to steal the wooden bowl from the hunter's car. He still couldn't see what was so special about the bowl, even after it had burnt his hands and he had dropped it with a startled hiss and a flash of blue. Nothing that couldn't be overcome with a set of good gloves.

Then there was kidnapping Lydia. He kind of liked Lydia. She had, after all, provided a conduit for his spirit and helped to resurrect him, but if using the banshee to get what he wanted worked then she was expendable.

There are new scents though. Something that smells and tastes like citrus, exotic but also kind of toxic, like snake poison. There are two more wolves, sisters probably, because they share the same soft-cookie dough flavour.

Peter gags and turns away as there is the sound of a door being opened. The chain rattles and he hears the footsteps on the stairs.

He braces himself. The pack is home.

He thinks it should be fine. What the pack doesn’t know won't hurt them.

They needn't know about his failed attempts to grab power. Peter's slightly disgusted with himself, that he's had to fall to such underhand methods. Methods that have yet to even provide a reward.

Then the demons had lost Lydia to hunters and Peter had decided it was time to cut his losses. He might as well make something out of this before the demons turn on him. If that means giving the pack a warning and a push in the right direction then so be it. He's patient. He can wait.

He'll get what he wants eventually.

He always does.

***

The loft door slides open and Peter half-turns from where he is looking out of the arched window. He hears the stuttering heartbeats of surprise and takes in the scene. There are five of them, and too his disappointment Scott isn't there. It's the beta, huntress and the three new pack members.

Derek's ex-beta Isaac snarls. Allison looks like she really wants to shoot him but refrains. Behind them the two strange wolves shift uncomfortably, and their not-quite-so-human companion looks confused.

"Well, well," Peter drawls, lips twitching, "The infamous Beacon Hill's Pack shows its face. But where is your esteemed leader?"

"What are you doing here?" Allison challenges. She reminds Peter a lot like her aunt as she stalks into the room, and he thinks she might have actually stabbed him or tasered him with whatever weapon she is hiding on her body when Isaac holds out a hand in front of her, holding her back.

"I have a warning. Some helpful advice," he shrugs carelessly, hands spread to show no harm is meant. At least for the moment. "There are demons in town."

To his alarm none of them look surprised.

"Really?" Isaac drawls back, and he steps forwards, his eyes flashing yellow. Peter wishes again that Scott could have shown up so he doesn't have to deal with immature pack members. The dark haired teen even snorts. "Yeah?" he asks, "Tell us something we don't know."

He takes a slow breath, suddenly out of place. "Do you have any idea what you're up against?" he says snidely, "What monsters you are facing?"

"We have some idea," Allison is staring at him a bit too strongly for his liking. She doesn't look like she's carrying a weapon, but you can never be sure with Argents. Every shifter worth its pelt knows Argent is nothing but a synonym for trouble right up there along with Campbell.

And - Peter takes a breath, heart sinking slightly -Winchester.

Even if he hadn't scented them back at the manor or when he had met them before, even he knows that precise blend of sickly heavenly flowers, monster blood and sulphur ashes is dangerous. He knows they lied about their name, heard the stutter of the heart beat but it had been well-disguised beneath a smile and deep breathing.

There are voices drifting up the stairs and Isaac bares his teeth in a grin. "Scott's here," he says.

Scott McCall with his uneven jaw and stupid sense of morality that gave him alpha status without even having to work for it. It makes Peter's skin crawl.

Then there'll be the precious human friend who had refused his offer of the bite. He still feels a bit insulted about that. He now is never quite sure about whether the human actually wants to be a wolf or not, but Stiles manages to stumble through life quite happily.

The Sheriff’s kid and young alpha are the least of Peter’s worries. Because the hunters know he stole their precious cup and their first reaction is probably going to be to shoot him on sight.

He hopes Scott might be enough to save him from the hunters’ wrath.

"So you're human," one of the brothers is saying. Peter doesn't know them well enough to tell which one. "In a pack of wolves?"

"Actually I'm not human," said human says. Stiles-or-whatever-the-damn-kid-is-called deadpans, "I'm the Abominable Snowman, but it's summer and I can't transform." Peter smirks, because even if the kid is annoying, his poisonous brand of sarcasm is something he can appreciate.

The other hunter grumble, "Sarcastic little sh--" he is cut off with a gasp, presumably as his brother elbows him.

"That's just Stiles for you," Lydia shrugs it off as the five of them finally appear at the doorway, pausing as they spot him.

Peter is relieved at least to see that Isaac and the others are a bit alarmed at the appearance of the hunters. The youngest wolf - a female with long hair steps back a little, while her sister stands forwards protectively. Her eyes flash red - interesting, Peter muses, and briefly entertains the idea that killing Scott might not be his only option when the hunters spot him.

"You--!" the shorter, trigger happy one has his gun out, striding forwards towards where Peter stands. His brother looks like he considers holding him back but settles for drawing his own gun, the muzzle aimed disturbingly at Peter's head.

"Me?" Crap. This isn't going to go well. If the Winchesters know he was at the manor he's screwed.

For a human the one brother can move quite fast. Peter lets out a surprised snarl as he is slammed against the wall, gun under his chin.

"Dean!" Lydia cries out, "Sam, do something!"

"You did say we could shoot him," Sam points out helpfully.

"Not helping," Peter shoves Dean back, and despite his werewolf strength the human only stumbles a little bit, gun still aimed unnervingly at Peter's heart. "What are you doing?" he spits out.

"You stole our cup!"

"What? Do you want it back?" he's treading on thin ice here.

"You gave it to the demons!"

The rest of the pack look surprised as Scott stepped forwards, "Uh, guys? Can you put the guns away?" he doesn't seem scared of the hunters, which might be Peter's way out.

"Sam. Dean. Guns away," Lydia snaps. Surprisingly the weapons drop from when they are pointed at his heart and head.

"What's he doing here?" Dean stabs the gun towards him, making Peter flinch slightly, looking at the hunter distastefully.

Scott just looks lost, "I don't know. Isaac, what is he doing here?"

Allison answers, "He said he has a warning for us. That there are demons in town."

"Well duh," Dean snorts, "Of course you'd know that. Since you're working for them."

"You're _what_?" Stiles repeats, "What do they pay you in? Doggy treats?"

"Oh, a dog joke," Peter snaps back, "Really inventive." Stiles glares back at him.

"Explain," Scott demands, "Or I'm letting Sam and Dean shoot you."

"Oh _please_ ," Dean breathes, and for a moment Peter feels like a piece of prey when the hunter stares at him. Lydia silences him with a glare.

"They were blackmailing me!" Peter protests. It's a lie, but he's good a lying. It's possible to lie without your heart beat changing, and Peter can manage it. You just have to believe what you're saying is true.

And it is kind of true in a way. It just depends on your perspective.

Sam fixes him with a disbelieving look as he and his brother finally tuck the guns away, safety slipping back on, "The demons blackmailed you." he says, "To steal the holy grail from us?"

There is the muffled sound of Stilinksi choking, " _Holy_ \--Holy _Grail_? You guys had the--" Lydia stands next to him, looking uninterested, examining her nails.

"Apparently," she drawls.

"We did," Sam sighs, "And he stole it." Like his brother he gestures at Peter with his gun.

"I'm sorry," Peter says, and even he isn't sure if he's being sincere or not. "I was being blackmailed. The demons had me doing various tasks for them. One of them included stealing that bowl. I didn't know what it was. If I did do you think I would have stolen it?"

"Yes." Both Sam, Dean and Stiles all speak pretty bluntly.

Someone clears his throat, "Uh, hello?" the dark-haired not-human raises a cautious hand, "Can someone tell me who he is?" even that kid likes to point at Peter, as if no-one else know who he is talking about. Thankfully he doesn't have a weapon though to point at him.

"By all mean," Peter jumps on the subject change, gesturing, "Introduce us. It's nice to see Scott's pack has new members."

Surprisingly the female alpha doesn't actually argue that point. He's slightly disappointed, he'd been hoping she would. "This is Peter Hale," Stiles takes over introductions. It's almost shameful, a wolf pack with a huntress and a human as the two head betas, yet at the same time it's admirable. "He used to be a psychotic alpha, then his nephew killed him so he resurrected himself and now turns up to be annoyingly unhelpful." he turns to the hunters, "This is Dean and Sam Winchester," he points at one and then the other in turn, "They're the hunters who rescued Lydia."

The rest of the pack seem to relax at that, and Allison even bounds forwards with a smile. "I'm a hunter too. Well… retired..." she holds out a hand.

Dean grins, "You think you're tough, little hunter girl?"

"For my initiation I was tied up in an abandoned house until I managed to escape."

"Yeah, our dad used to do that to us too. Dean Winchester."

"Allison Argent."

Whatever just occurred seemed to have passed over everyone else's head, except maybe Sam's for he leans past his brother, "We met your dad. How is he?"

Allison's smile flickers and her heartbeat stutters. "He's fine."

A lie. Interesting.

"This is Isaac," Stiles continues, "He’s 90% scarf, wears one even in the summer and makes unhelpful comments."

"What did I ever do to you guys?" Isaac seems frustrated by whatever resentment Stiles holds for him.

"Where do I even start?" Stiles beseeches, "Mostly you do this thing where you open your mouth and words come out."

"Seriously you two?" Lydia sighs, following the banter with exasperated amusement. "Again?"

"Nothing changes," Scott shrugs and doesn't look guilty when she turns to him as if to say 'you're the alpha - stop them!' Peter's actually sort of glad he's not really in this pack.

"Just think," Lydia smiles dangerously, "If things work out between your mom and the Sheriff, you could be living with that soon."

"What?" Scott chokes on thin air. Peter raises one eyebrow in surprise.

"They're dating?" Stiles' voice is unusually high-pitched. " _Ohmygod,_ that's not funny!"

The pair of them look as if the thought has never even occurred to them.

"Seriously?" Lydia rolls her eyes, "What have you been up to in the month I wasn't here? It's like you can't even function without me!"

"Well yeah," Stiles actually looks a little lost. Peter remembers now how lovesick he was about the girl, and he now notices the way she gives him a weak smile back.

"So, wait, are you two like a thing now?" Isaac asks suddenly, uncrossing an arm and pointing to them with his index and middle finger. At this rate the introductions are never going to be finished.

Allison snorts, "No they're not," she answers. Neither Lydia nor Stiles react, and Peter wonders how blind the rest of the pack obviously are.

"I'm Nate," the other alpha actually steps forwards eventually. "This is my sister Lexi and that's Jethro. We're here because our pack got murdered by a demon."

The hunter's interest is peaked. "A demon? What colour eyes?" the pair speak together and even Peter can't tell who said what.

"Black," Nate says, jutting her chin out and she meets the green and hazel eyes staring at her, "She had black eyes."

"Red hair?" Dean seems frustrated.

She shakes her head, "No. Brown hair."

Sam swears, running his hand through his hair and staring at the high ceiling.

"I know of two more," Peter speaks up.

"We do too," Sam interrupts him, glancing at him warily. "Orange-eyed demon called Malphas. Yellow-eyed demon called Belial. And a black-eyed red haired demon called Abaddon. She's the one manipulating all this."

"She?" Stiles frowns, "Abaddon is a she?"

"There was one here called Dantalion," Scott ignores his friend, "She had green eyes."

"Dammit," Dean spins around in frustration. "We got told by a reliable contact--"

His brother coughs, "I don't think you can exactly call Crowley reliable, Dean."

Dean ignores him, "Abaddon is raising six demons. One every month. She's got four out. We think. But there is always the chance there's another one out there already. That would make five out. She only has one more."

"Every month?" Allison asks. "When?" but she appears to already know the answer.

"Full moon."

"That's tomorrow," Isaac says.

"That's why they're in town," Peter adds, "One more demon needs to be released and then that's it. Grand plan unfolds. Especially now Lydia's back."

"Wait - how did you --" Dean is frowning at him and he hurriedly moves on.

"Whatever they're planning - it's going to happen. Soon."

"How do you know?" Stiles asks, "Do you have a built in demon sensor?"

Peter snarls in frustration. He doesn't know why he helps these idiots out, he really doesn't. "Because in case none of you morons have noticed yet it's raining outside!"

***

"They're not demons." they are all bent over the table, Isaac, Lexi and Sam having stolen the only chairs there. "They're actual _devils_ ," Stiles emphasises. Peter Hale is lurking in the corner and Dean leans over the research. He has to admit, this pack is good.

Dean scoffs. "They're not devils. They're demons. Trust me, we've met the devil."

Sam grins, and Dean recognises his little brother's 'I've been possessed by Satan' grin. "Polite guy," he shrugs, but the smile doesn't do anything to hide tense shoulders and dark shadows in his gaze.

"You've met the devil." Allison sounds unimpressed. "Right and what… did he wave a little pitchfork at you while dancing in hell fire?"

"Actually he burns cold." Dean corrects, "And he liked to monologue about his brothers."

"He did that a lot," Sam sighs. "Then he went and stabbed Gabriel in the chest." Dean winces at the memory of returning to Motel Hell to find the archangel's dead body, wing prints spread wide and for the first time since they had met him the Trickster was well, and truly, dead.

The stares are all disbelieving.

"Point is," Sam moves on, "These are demons. Really powerful demons. And yeah, maybe you can say that they're some kind of devil, especially considering that we're 90% sure most of them used to be angels, and that's not even starting on Abaddon the Hell Knight for Lucifer, but regardless they can be killed."

"Oh yeah?" Jethro is sceptical, "How do you kill a devil then?"

"We've met three before." Dean casts a glance at Sam who nods, "Two white-eyes and one nasty bastard with yellow-eyes."

"Wait… four." Sam adds, "Samhain was one. He had blue-eyes."

"Point," Dean nods. "Thing is, there are two ways to kill them." Then he stops, and he stares at Sam.

A silent conversation passes between them, and no-one is quite sure what they are saying.

"One option isn't available. And… the other option…" he sighs. "Well that's not exactly available either. Lucifer destroyed the Colt."

"Although," Sam pulls out a silver blade, "We're pretty sure this is going to do the trick."

"Well, we're prepared too," Stiles says, pulling something from his pockets. Dean is impressed by the salt container, but not by the clove of garlic that almost rolls off the table before Lydia catches it, sniffing at it uncertainly. Isaac wrinkles his nose at the smell.

"What are you doing with garlic?" Dean scoops it out of the banshee-girl's hands, waving it in Stiles' face.

"Vampires," Stiles answers promptly.

Dean casually tosses it over his shoulder. It hits Peter Hale in the head and bounces off. "Doesn't work." he says cheerfully.

"Also aswang," Lydia tosses her hair over her shoulder, turning to stare at Dean.

"Might work," Sam shrugs, "Still, there are better options here."

"Look, we appreciate that you're trying to help," Nate is the one who finally looks up, "But we can handle this."

McCall nods in agreement, "Nate's right." Dean raises his eyebrows, "We managed fine with the hellhounds. We can deal with this. It's our town, and you play by our rules."

"Have any of you ever fought a demon before?" Sam asks, "No?"

Jethro cautiously raises one hand, "I sort of manipulated energy to follow along in a demon's teleport." he says.

***

The hunter pair frown at that. Scott kind of likes them, but Nate has a point. She doesn't trust them because that's how she's been raised, and Scott doesn't trust them because the only decent hunters he has met have been Allison and her dad.

"Look, you lot are a bunch of kids." Dean says, gesturing to them. Scott’s just relieved they haven’t drawn guns on any of them yet (Peter doesn’t count) and don’t seem to be freaked out by Jethro’s energy powers. "Ignoring the creepy uncle over there." He remembers Peter last minute.

"Creepy uncle ignored," Peter shrugs, and Scott really wishes he would just leave. It makes him nervous, being in the same room as Peter Hale.

"We've seen things that are worse than your worst nightmares," Sam repeats.

Scott remains unimpressed. Obviously Nate is too, for she grins, baring her teeth, "I watched my whole pack get ripped to shreds by a demon." she says. "What's your worst nightmare?"

"Hell," Dean says, way too promptly and that actually makes Scott kind of nervous. That and the whole blend of sulphur and a sickly sweet flower scent they have going, underlying the gun oil and blood that seems to stain their very souls.

"We don't need your help," Scott says, warily. They don't. They've managed fine before. They can do so again.

Peter coughs from the corner, but everyone ignores him.

"Actually," Lydia glances at Peter and then to Sam and Dean, "I think we do need them."

Scott looks at her questioningly, "Why? They're hunters. Who is to say they won't turn around and shoot us the first time we wolf out."

"Provided you don't wolf out on us and attempt to eat our organs we should be good." Dean adds helpfully.

"Lyds, have you seen them?" Stiles hisses, and as if the hunters standing right there can't hear that. "The scars on their arms? They look like they were fucking crucified!"

Stiles has a point. Both brothers look like they're soldiers to their very souls, both weary but still standing and still fighting until the end.

Both of them look like they have nothing to lose. And that makes them dangerous.

"I've been forced to endure their company for a month," Lydia says sweetly, "Dean eats too much, plays loud rock music and makes really inappropriate jokes while pining for his angel. Sam works too hard, changes his mind about things making him really hypocritical and overthinks everything." Dean is spluttering for some reason, "I think they should stay."

Scott is still unsure. Both hunters have that expression though that tells him that even if he sends them away they are just going to turn up again like a bad penny.

"Also," Lydia adds, playing her trump card, "Now I'm back the demons are going to be back too. Things are going to get bad. And I mean really bad." She glances around, "People are going to die," she says, "I know it. I can feel it. We need all the help we can get."


	32. Learning All Your Tricks

"How about you guys stay here out of our way?"

"Uh, no way!" Nate is the one who angrily steps out in front of the pair of hunters at the suggestion. She isn't intimidated by their attitude. "This is our problem, if you think you can just stick your noses in--"

"If Hale is right," Dean glances towards where Peter is lurking in the shadows, "Then there are demons in town right now. How do you suggest we find them - huh?"

Nate opens her mouth and then pauses. Isaac considers for a moment their options. "They usually find us," he tells them.

"Exactly," Sam, despite being taller than his brother leans around the older man to glance at them, "You guys need the upper hand here and you need to know what you're up against. We need to find these devils before they hurt anyone. We stand a better chance than your pack, and you know it. They're expecting you. They're not expecting us."

Scott grabs Nate, pulling her back. "Fine." he says shortly. "But keep in contact. You have Lydia's number right? She'll pass on the rest of our phone numbers."

"Great," Dean pats Sam's shoulder as they turn towards the door.

"How are you going to find them?" Allison calls after them.

The older brother waves a hand dismissively. "We usually just walk around and they show up." he shrugs, and Sam grins at them. There is something in his eyes that means Isaac doesn't doubt the truth of the statement, as they vanish past the sliding door to the stairs.

Their voices can still be heard by the werewolves as they head down to where their big black car must be parked outside.

"I don't like this."

"You think I do? But it's the best we've got."

"Sam, they're kids."

"Supernatural kids." There was a pause, and then he added, "Do you think their parents even know?" as if that had only just occurred to him.

"That is one conversation I do not want to be around for."

Their voices fade and Isaac glances expectantly towards Scott.

"Well" Nate prompts. "Are we going to listen to them and sit here and do nothing while they are out there doing who knows what?" She's furious, a little ball of rage and anger that Scott placates with a quiet look. He’s a good alpha that way, Isaac thinks.

"No," Scott shakes his head, looking around at his pack, "No, because we have something those two don't." He is staring at Jethro and Isaac looks over to where the dark haired teen looks pale all of a sudden. "We have our own supernatural detector."

***

"So what - are you just going to parade around on the streets until Jethro senses something? You might as well just sit here and listen to the whole town! Or sniff out sulphur scents!" Nate is rambling, wishing people would stop treating her like a little kid. She's an alpha! She needs to feel that she has some measure of control over this situation, and any control she had is quickly slipping through her fingers.

To make matters worse Allison keeps glancing at her as if she knows how Nate feels. It might well be the case, but Nate doesn't want to broach her feelings at the moment. She just wants them locked up out of the way in a secure box where they can't influence her decisions.

"So we need to know where to start," Lydia shrugs, "Are your ghosts telling you anything useful?"

Everyone turns to stare at Stiles, Allison and Scott. They all shake their heads. "My dad told us how to ward them off," Allison explains, "It's been keeping them away and there hasn't been any more--" she stops, looking to Stiles and Scott.

Scott shakes his head; "I've been fine." he isn't lying.

Stiles' grin is thin, "I'm fine. Great. Fantaaastic," he stretches out the word and smiles, beaming at Lydia who looks concerned. Nate can't tell if he's lying or just happy at the banshee being there. Judging by Scott's confused expression he can't tell either.

"So demons," Isaac claps his hands together, "What do we know? We've met three. They stink of sulphur, possess people, have coloured eyes--"

"I think--" everyone turns to look at the blonde girl and Lexi stops talking under the weight of everyone's stares. "I think I saw something," she says, and for a moment she looks just like Nate as she flashes them a confident glare.

"Where?" Allison steps around Isaac to look at the younger wolf.

Lexi shrugs, "One of these books," she gestures to the bookshelf that had somehow made its way into the loft, and now housed the wide range of material Stiles, Lydia and Scott had bought, along with the old journals of the Hale family. There was also a laptop that Peter said contained the Hale family bestiary.

"Which book?" Isaac asks, with his usual level of unhelpfulness. He's just being pragmatic, really. "There are a lot of books."

Lexi flashes her eyes at him, "There's one that mentions demons briefly. There was something there, but it's not much. All the books focus on shifters and werewolves."

"And druids," Jethro adds.

"Well that's great," Lydia throws her hands up slightly in exasperation, "You." she points at Isaac and Allison who both looks startled, the former mouthing 'Me?' almost in surprise. "We're going to the library. If Sam and Dean want research, we can give them research."

"I'll - uh - I'll help," Peter steps after her from where he had been lurking, and the banshee glares at him. He smiles charmingly, leaning closer and Nate hears him as he leans closer and whispers, "Don't be like that Lydia. We're connected, you and I--"

"Yes. To the grave," and the banshee's smile is chilling. Peter's smile grows forced as he starts for the door.

Isaac is still frowning, "Beacon Hills has a library?"

Allison sighs, grabbing her boyfriend's arm and tugging him along, as she falls into step behind her best friend. "We'll phone you guys if we find anything."

"We'll do the same," Nate promises, wincing as there is a crash from the bookshelf. Stiles looks up innocently, not even looking the least bit sheepish as he shoves aside the pile of books he had tripped over. He cautiously slots one back on the shelf, and grins, as if nobody had noticed his mishap.

"Well? What are you waiting for? Let's get started."

***

"How come when you don't want to find demons, they turn up like a bad penny, but when you actually feel in the mood to meet one they just don't show?"

Sam rolls his eyes and ignores his brother. "Maybe they heard you coming," he says, because for all their bravado they really don't have a clue where to start looking. They just needed an excuse to get away from the pack and their keen werewolf hearing. "Cas still busy?"

"Who knows?" Dean shrugs, glancing down another street. "This place has way too many creepy warehouses," he bemoans, glancing around.

"We could have worked with those kids you know," Sam suggests, "The wolves at least could have smelt them out."

"They're kids," Dean relies, "And I'm sure they're going to be very helpful but--" he pulls something out of his pocket, "We have something they don't."

Sam sighs. "You're still convinced we have a friendly ghost helping us?" he asks.

"It makes sense," Dean shrugs, "You said something pulled you out of the ground back when Belial rose. Then something was very definitely throwing our friend Mal around at the manor. Plus the EMF keeps going off at random times."

"It hasn't since the manor," Sam points out.

"We've been at the bunker since then," Dean reaches into his other pocket and pulls out said EMF metre, throwing it at Sam.

Sam catches it, and sees he's made a mistake - it’s not the same EMF metre. Dean has actually gone through on his word, and has somehow made his own again. He turns it on, and is almost annoyed when it instantly whines. "Who though?" he asks, "I phoned Ms Tran. Kevin is with her. Bobby's dead. There's no one else."

"Look, I'm not arguing about this," Dean spins slightly, turning on the spot, "And if the ghost doesn't want to show their face then that's their choice." Sam can see Dean is holding a compass, the needle spinning. "It is creeping me out too, and I'd really like to know who it is, but for now I can wait. We've got bigger problems." Dean looks up and Sam steps forwards, following the point of the compass.

It's not pointing north.

"I feel like Captain Jack Sparrow," Dean grins, because down the street there is an empty building, gaping windows and a sign that states it's an abandoned train warehouse.

The EMF whines piteously and then dies. The compass needle swings back to point north.

Whoever their ghost is, he's gone. "That's why you wanted us out," Sam realises.

Dean grimaces, "Guess it's another abandoned building," he sighs, "Come on then. If we have to."

Their ghost might be unknown, but at least he or she is being helpful.

***

"Here!" Lexi is the one who finds something eventually. It helps that she knows what to look for. "Demons!" she says, and points to something scrawled in the margin. "There's barely anything in here, but there was this address. It must be someone in town who knows about demons or something."

Jethro looks over. It’s a name, a woman. Probably someone the Hales were in contact with.

"There just happens to be someone in town who knows about demons," Stiles drawls, "Is anybody else getting a bad feeling about this?"

"The least we can do is check it out," Scott shrugs.

"We could be walking into a trap," his best friend suggests.

Jethro looks between them, and he can sense the worry, edge with fear and excitement. "It doesn't always have to be a trap," he says, "We just check it out. It's the address of a harmless old lady. It can't be anything bad - right?"

***

"I hate you." Stiles grumbles at Jethro, less than an hour later. Jethro thinks he knows why, not just because they had to resort to a different car other than Stiles' jeep which didn't really fit five people in comfortably, but because here they are, walking down the creepy street.

It's not that creepy. But the clouds have been dark since Lydia got back, and they show no signs of clearing anytime soon. It makes Scott uneasy, but Jethro feels somewhat calmed by it. It reminds him a bit of Britain, threatening to downpour at any moment.

It reminds him of home.

They stick to the pavement, because there are cars parked along the side, and long paths that lead up to the front door. Lexi is mouthing off the numbers, looking for the right one while Nate just looks around in general.

Scott is leading, while Stiles and Jethro bicker behind him, still debating how sensible this decision to investigate this old acquaintance of the Hale pack is.

"They're probably dead," Stiles is saying, "The Hales are all dead. And their contacts have either left or died. Or gone batshit insane," he twirls his finger by his ear.

There's a prickle in Jethro's scalp and he stops, glancing around. The street that had moments ago felt so peaceful suddenly felt ominous and dark.

Stiles continues walking, "Why don't we just track down the hunters? They can't protest too much if we just turn up unannounced. What are they going to do? _Shoot_ us?" He pauses, suddenly aware that Jethro is no longer listening.

The dark-haired teen is staring at a house. The grass of the front lawn is neatly trimmed, and there is a white mailbox at the end. Nothing distinguishes it from the other houses on the street, bar a few pieces of flaking paint and the closed front curtains.

The others have moved past, and he vaguely hears Lexi pointing out the correct house. It's right next door to the one that has so enraptured his attention. There is a sold sign hanging outside and several windows are boarded up. It looks empty.

"You knock," Stiles gestures forwards.

"What? No way!" Scott protests, "You knock."

"And say what? I'm a human that wants to ask about demons and the Hale pack? You go! Be the alpha Scott, be the alpha!"

"Stop using that like it's a valid argument!"

"It is a valid argument, oh alpha of my heart."

Nate sighs, annoyance and triviality in that one sound, " _I'll_ knock," she says, moving down the path.

Jethro remains stranded on the pavement, almost as if he is frozen in place. He realises only later that he's trying to control his breathing and racing heartbeat, and it's amazing the wolves haven't notices yet that he's freaking out about this.

He's freaking out over a house. Of all the things to freak out over.

In front of the neighbouring house, the correct address that they’re meant to be looking at, there is no doorbell, and so Nate knocks, loud reverberating knocks on the door.

Jethro flinches at each and every one. He still can't find words to explain what he's feeling, the strange mix of emptiness and shadows that sit in front of him.

“I guess they moved,” Lexi whispers.

Just one house over Nate shrugs and turns back to the guys, "Nothing," she says. There is a crash from behind her.

Everybody jumps and Nate spins around, stepping backwards four steps before she realises it’s a gate off to the right of the house. Something comes bursting through it and Nate looks like she is about to snarl with fangs and red eyes.

"Holy--" Stiles looks like he is about to duck down and protect his head when he spots what it is.

A black and white collie trots out towards them.

"Delta?" Stiles frowns, straightening. There is something about the dog, but Jethro can't put his finger on it. "Girl what are you doing here?"

"She must have followed you," Scott suggests, "I thought you said you left her at home?"

"I did," Stiles emphasises, "My dad was so not happy." the black and white collie weaves around his legs, "Okay, fine," he sighs, "You can stay. Keep quiet," he adds, as if the dog can understand. She gives a quiet wuff though, so maybe she does as she falls silent.

"Jethro?" Nate stops suddenly, spotting where he lingers and staring at him. Maybe she can sense it too now, the dark feeling of foreboding, or maybe she's just realised that he's sensed _something_.

He doesn't know what. It's just that there is something about this place that sets his teeth on edge.

"Scott! Scott wait up! Jeth's spidery senses are tingling!"

The others move to stand next to him. Stiles helpfully waves a hand in front of his eyes. Jethro blinks, but remains staring at the building. "There is something wrong with that place." he finds his voice, surprised to hear it is calm. It doesn't match his racing heart beat or the pounding of blood in his ears.

They all take a moment to appreciate the aesthetic value of the building. "I don't see it," Lexi shakes her head, "It looks normal. Do you want us to knock on that door too?"

Jethro frowns, tilting his head. "I don't like it." he admits, "I think we should stay far away from it."

"I--" Stiles peers at the building. "There is no reflection."

"What?"

“Look at the window. There is no reflection. We're standing right -- " Stiles moves to stand in front of the window "Here -but there is no reflection." Despite the clouds rays of sun sparkle down through the gaps. Stiles is right, Jethro notices numbly, the house is like a black hole. The windows are dark voids, and for the time being the gang are like vampires, without a reflection in the dark glass.

"It smells empty," Nate says, tasting the air, "I think Jethro may have found something. Not what we’re looking for but…" she shrugs, “We should check it out.”

Stiles looks torn between fist-pumping and looking terrified. He settles for typing away on his phone, hunching his shoulders a little bit as he types. "The house is owned and lived in by a seventy-nine year old lady," he reads out from wherever he discovered that information. Knowing Stiles he probably hacked police accounts. Jethro thinks that the guy he doesn't actually think he's been ever introduced to properly - Danny - might have been teaching Stiles how to do that.

He wonders if Stiles can teach him that.

"No," Scott shakes his head, "I agree with Nate. It definitely smells empty. There's no-one there, ghost, human or demon."

Stiles shrugs, "Old lady bought the house twenty years ago, had four children, six grandchildren, great-grandchildren, husband died a few years back--"

"No," Jethro shakes his head once, "No, it's empty. It's dead and cold and --"

The door opens.

Everyone jumps, Nate and Scott leaping behind a parked car while Stiles whistles innocently, spinning on the spot and pretending to be texting on his phone. Lexi sidesteps to stand behind Stiles, while Jethro just stays where he is, staring.

What emerges from the supposedly empty house is what Stiles had predicted. An old lady. She opens her door and shuffles out, wearing an old cardigan that has been washed too many times draped over her frail shoulders. She's wearing slippers, and her grey hair frames her face before being scooped up into a bun. Wrinkles line her soft expression as she pauses a few metres or so from Jethro, opening the mailbox. She spots him there and with a weak, watery smile she lifts one hand in a wave.

Stiles is doing a bad job of being subtle and pretends to look startled, turning to look over his shoulder as if she is waving at someone else. Nate and Scott are whispering frantically behind the car they are hiding behind and Jethro just looks blank. Lexi grins weakly back as the old lady closes the mailbox, turning and shuffling back to the house.

There is a whimper from where Delta is pressed against Stiles' leg. Her ears are back and her eyes are watching the woman with some innate animal instinct that probably is screaming the same thing to her that it does to Jethro.

That old woman wasn't there.

There were no thoughts. No flicker of energy. No life at all from the woman.

"I'm not knocking! I knocked last time! You're the alpha! You knock!"

"Why does everyone keep using that excuse?"

Nate and Scott tumble out from behind the parked car, both staring at the house. Scott glares at Nate and she meets his gaze, before sighing. "Fine," she hisses, "But you guys are coming with me."

She spins smartly and stalks towards the house. Scott looks like a lost puppy for a moment before Stiles shrugs and follows. Lexi pulls a face at the alpha. "I'd do what she says," she advises.

Jethro doesn't like this plan. Nate shifts her weight from foot to foot, while the rest of them linger behind like some over eager trick-or-treaters.

"If this old lady goes Bathilda Bagshot on us and turns into a giant snake, this is all, your, fault!" Stiles hisses at him as he waits, hearing noise as the lock opens.

The door doesn't creak, but Jethro thinks it would be more appropriate if it did. It would match the hollow empty feeling that sits in his stomach as he looks at the house. His skin itches, and it feels like something is crawling under his skin, crackling and struggling to get out.

He forces it back as his friends start lying through their teeth.

"Good morning," Nate smiles charmingly. "We were just wondering--"

"You see we're doing a survey, for a school project," Stiles is better at lying and he takes over, "We were wondering if we could ask you a few questions, about the local town."

The lady is smiling, eyes slightly watery with age. Her expression doesn't seem to change.

"You see Beacon Hills is almost famous for the behaviour of its animals, attracting… _experts_ from across the country…" Stiles is making this stuff up as he goes along and doing remarkably well, "We were wondering on your opinion of our wildlife's behaviours and if you yourself have witnesses anything unusual. Any…" Stiles stops, mid-gesture because Jethro makes a choked out noise.

It feels like it's throttling him, the pressure heavy in the air. "You're not--" he gasps out, and the lady just smiles.

She still hasn't said anything and that's when it clicks into place.

"She's not real." Jethro realises, and he should have known that by now, but he'd been thinking she was anything from a ghost to some other kind of monster.

She's neither.

She's nothing. And illusion. A trick.

"She's not real." and he shoves a hand through her chest.

Her face freezes, smile on pause before her image flickers like static. There is a faint hiss as it vanishes, evaporating like steam.

"Jethro!" Nate hisses, alarmed.

"We evaporated an old lady," Stiles glances around panicked, to check and see if anybody else had seen that, "Oh my god what the fuck we just poofed an old lady." He leans backwards, probably trying to be conspicuous but almost falling over, his arms waving frantically. "My dad's going to kill me," he whimpers.

"Come on," Nate grabs Jethro by the arm as if he's done something wrong, "Get inside, quickly, before someone sees."

"Wha-no!" Jethro doesn't want to be anywhere near this place. It feels like a hole, and he struggles, but the werewolf girl is stronger and before he knows it, he's crossed the threshold.

It feels like he's been dowsed in a bucket of cold water and he gasps, turning back around for the warm air outside.

The door slams shut as Stiles is the last in, peering through a peep hole outside, "So the good thing is no-one saw," he says, turning around. The smile dies on his face as he sees Jethro's expression. "Du-ude. You looked like someone killed your dog." He glances at Delta just to check she isn't dead. "Don't kill my dog," he adds.

Delta woofs in appreciation, but it's quiet and half-hearted.

"Call the others," Scott tells Stiles.

"And Sam and Dean?"

"Not now." Scott shakes his head, "Let Lydia deal with her hunter friends if she wants to."

"Uh - problem," Stiles glances up from his phone, "There's no signal."

"What?"

"Actually even if there was signal it doesn't matter because my phone is dead. Caput." a clenched fist opens, mimicking an explosion. There is a mad flurry and Scott checks his phone, along with Nate who had finally gotten a phone.

"Dead."

"Mine too."

"Well that can't possibly be very bad news." Stiles sighs.


	33. The Devil Within

"Why are there numerous abandoned buildings?" Dean complains, "That can't be good. In what world is that good?"

Sam ignores his brother entirely because to be fair, they had been wandering through the industrial district. The Pack base wasn't actually that far out of the warehouse area, and it probably helped their supernatural lives since half of the warehouses were empty, having closed down due to the recent economy issues.

"It looks like it used to be a werewolf hide out," he says, spotting claw marks along one wall. “What the train is for is beyond me.”

"Not what we're here for," Dean grumbles, "We're here looking for some sulphur stained hell spawn--" Dean is cut off as Sam lurches to one side, his full weight crashing into Dean and sending both brothers sprawling on their sides behind a pile of boxes. "What the--" Dean complains only to have Sam violently slam his hand over Dean's mouth.

Dean bites him. Sam removes his hand and half-rolls off, motioning for silence. Dean looks like he wants to complain, and pulls a disgusted face but stays silent, hearing the murmured voices in the distance.

Sam rolls over and pokes his head over the top of the boxes. In the shadows he can make out the shape of a train carriage, looking in desperate need of being fixed. Two dark figures are inside, talking.

Sam turns to motion to Dean, but his brother is already on his feet, sidestepping through the shadows, his back to the boxes as he silently slips around the corner.

Sam goes the opposite direction. He meets up with Dean again several metres forwards from their last position, and now in the shadow of the train carriage itself, ducking down low under the window.

"Relax," someone is drawling, a hoarse male voice, "She's got everything under control. Every _one_ under control."

"We're stuck in this town of _dogs_ \--"

The shapes above them shift against the light of the train carriage and both Sam and Dean lurch back into the shadows as a figure appears in the carriage door.

"Is that the last demon?" Dean's voice is barely even a whisper; it's just a breath of air in Sam's ear.

"Guy chatting to Mal?" Sam recognises the crow-like cough as the other demon snaps a reply, "Yeah."

"Look, you stay here and do your job. I go and do my job! Abaddon is happy. Belial is happy--"

"Who cares about Belial? Or Naamah and that pet she's found to play with."

"Have you seen him lately? Hell screwed him up! Well - screwed him up more than usual."

There is a bark of laughter from the new demon. "So I get left here to play with the puppies?"

Malphas steps out of the train carriage and Sam and Dean press back out of sight, "Come on Bael. You're waiting for the opportunity to throw them around a little bit." he half turns, seemingly unimpressed, "Don't damage them too much. They might yet be useful." His lips curl.

Bael snorts, disbelieving.

Sam can feel his hear beat thudding in his chest. He and Dean are out of sight, but all it will take is for Malphas to take a few steps to the right towards them and he'd be unable to miss them.

Instead he just turns, dismissive of the other demon as he stalks away. The other demon is left, and he takes a few angry steps after the orange-eyed demon, growling in his throat before stopping, irritated.

For a moment he stands there, staring after the other demon long after Malphas has gone. Then he lets out a great sigh, head resting on his shoulder. Standing there in the light Sam can see thickset shoulders, and shaggy dark hair. "Didn't your mother teach you it was rude to eavesdrop?"

Sam hears Dean curse next to him, and his hand finds the grip of the angel sword in his pocket.

The demon answers his own question, "Oh yeah, that's right. Azazel roasted mommy on the ceiling." The demon chuckles at his joke and Sam grits his teeth. It's been years, and yet the demons still like to mock that life-changing event. "Stop creeping around in the dark, boys. Come _on_!" Bael turns around, arms spread as Sam and Dean half-step out of the shadows, silver blades glinting in the light, "We need to have a little talk," he bares his teeth in a grin and his eyes flash.

They are blood red.

***

"Does anybody else not like this?"

Allison stabs down the number three on her phone again. "Scott's not answering."

"Stiles isn't answering either," Lydia turns away, her phone still pressed against her ear. She’s sitting in the bag, half leaning forwards to talk to the other two.

"Who else has a phone?" Isaac glances over from where he is driving, his gaze shifting between Lydia and Allison and then back to the road. The library had been a dead end, and so they were driving to join the others for various reasons. Allison hated being away from the action, Lydia had one of her feelings and Isaac was sick of research. "Nate!" he suggests, "Try Nate."

"I've tried Nate!" Allison snaps, "They aren't answering." she drops her hand in her lap.

Lydia peers between the seats, "Here," she leans forwards, "Turn here."

They all lurch forwards as Isaac brakes, "Which way?" he asks, gesturing to the crossroads.

"Left." Lydia says.

Allison frowns, and pulls up her phone again. "Is that right?" she asks.

"Right?" The car jerks to a halt again and behind them someone blares their horn at them.

"The map says 'right'." Allison says.

"And I say left."

Isaac and Allison both turn to where Lydia is clutching the driver's headrest for support, looking unconcerned by their confused expression. "Well?" she asks primly, and Isaac sighs and spins the wheel.

They drive along three more side streets before Lydia announces, "Here!"

The car jerks to a stop outside of a seemingly ordinary looking house, and just narrowly missing the parked car just in front of them. "Are you sure?" Isaac kills the engine, peering out of the window. "It looks pretty normal."

"I look pretty normal. You look pretty normal." Lydia isn't taking any stupidity today, "And I'm a banshee and once a month you turn into a raging wolf man." she shrugs, opening the back door, "Let's take a look." she clambers out of Allison's Toyota, taking in the house.

Allison and Isaac follow. "I don't smell anything," Isaac tells her, "Nothing. They're not here - are you _sure_ this is the right address?”

Allison glances down at the map on her phone, "Lydia just took us on a short cut," she answers, "Yes I am--" she stops, because her phone isn't turning on. She taps the button, but the screen remains black. "I mean - it said this was the street but now--" she raps her knuckles on her phone and sighs, "My cell is dead."

"Everything's dead."

Isaac peers over to where Lydia is standing at the end of the path leading to the house, "What?" he asks.

"It's--" Lydia seems to take a moment to compose herself, "It's dead." she says. "It's all--" she sways suddenly, and Isaac and Allison move to prop her up.

"What is it?" Allison asks, "What's wrong?"

"It's empty." Lydia's voice is faint, and her gaze is distant. "Everything is empty. It's a hollow pit. A pit. The pit. It's void." she shakes her head, seeming to snap herself out of it and blinking as she focusses suddenly on where Allison is leaning down in front of her friend. "They're in there." she says, "They're in there."

***

The front door crashes open and everyone jumps.

Allison spins inside still clutching the door handle and all their heart beat spike. There is a flurry of barking and Stiles almost throws his phone at the huntress and Allison freezes. "Oh thank--" her head drops, "We thought--"

"Everyone alive?" Isaac is such as optimist as he strolls in, hands in pockets. Lydia follows more sedately.

"Holy--" Stiles flings his arms down in frustration, "You scared us!" he snaps, "Don't do that! Don't scare Stiles, Stiles wants to live to reach graduation." At his feet the black and white collie stops barking, tail wagging once at the sight of friends.

"Stiles should stop talking in third person," Lydia deadpans back. "Where's Scott and Jethro?" she asks, finally noticing that only Stiles and Lexi are standing there at the bottom of the stairs.

"Upstairs," Lexi answers, "With Nate - Jethro is freaking out."

Lydia thinks she knows why, because there is something very, very wrong with this house. There's a horrible empty feeling in the pit of her stomach, which reminds her of how she feels after screaming. As if something precious has been torn out of her and left raw and broken and bloody on the rocks.

She's barely aware that she's moving up the stairs until Stiles sighs and begins a commentary, "Aaaand now Lydia's psychic mojo is kicking in. Way to go; let's follow the banshee, guys!"

The stairs are narrow and curl upwards like a backbone. They're thick with dust, which is buried so deeply into the wood that the floor looks dull and grey.

She emerges out onto a landing where Scott and Nate are trying to calm down Jethro. He looks drunk, raving and inebriated, staggering around and casting his head around in all directions. "There's too much--" he keeps saying, "There's too much, too much, too loud--"

Lydia steps forwards, lips parted, and for a brief moment she hears it, the symphony of voices washing over each other, screaming through thin walls. It's like someone has poured a bucket of water over her head, and for a moment it's a shock, soaking wet. The noise peaks, loud and she can almost hear the fire and twisted cries of pain and whispers and then it's gone. It's gone and over and she's left there shivering.

The stairs creak as Lexi and Isaac erupt onto the floor. "How is he?" the young werewolf asks.

"He's--" Nate winces, as Jethro staggers again. She attempts to keep him upright, but he shoves her off. The moment makes him light up green, and Lydia sees that his skin is sparking in the veins.

"What is this?" Scott spins around to direct Nate, "What is he _doing_?"

"Oh _god_ ," Stiles and Allison reach them, and the former just sees the trembling form of his new friend and almost spins right around and walks back down the stairs, "Seriously, are any of my friends _sane_ and normal _humans_?" he beseeches. " _Danny_. I need to tell Danny his boyfriend's a werewolf. Ex-boyfriend. Whatever. I need a human to be buddies with."

They ignore Stiles' rambling as Nate shakes her head, "He did this when the demon appeared. Back in January."

"It's the energy," Allison realises, "The energy from the demon, it leaks off into him. Supercharges him."

"Like a battery?" Isaac asks.

"It's not just a demon," Lydia whispers, because she knows this place, this house - it's not just a hole, some sort of empty optical illusion. The very walls of reality are thinner here, and she feels like she should almost be able to lean against thin air and fall into another world. She feels like she should be able to scream and that someone should answer.

So instead she keeps her mouth shut and hunches her shoulder's slightly. She feels Stiles' presence behind her and relaxes slightly, watching as Lex steps towards Jethro.

"We are so not qualified for this," Stiles whispers in her ear.

"It's--" Jethro spins around wildly. "Here."

"What's here?" Lexi asks.

He meets the young girl's gaze, eyes wide, pupils blown and around them the iris is an emerald green. "It's here." he says, "It's right--" he looks up, and their gazes all follow to where the attic cord hangs. "Here." he says. As if to make matters worse Stiles’ damn dog starts barking again, noise pointing to the ceiling like a bloodhound. Then abruptly she falls silent with a whimper, and she circles warily. There’s something up there.

"No," Nate shakes her head, "No, Jethro don't, you're going to lose control and we're going to end up who knows where!"

It's a legitimate concern, Lydia thinks.

"This is crazy!" Scott sighs, "This isn't going to go well, guys!" he almost whines, glancing at where Allison and Isaac linger near the stairs. Spotting them he frowns, glancing to Stiles and back. "When did you get here? The phones are dead!"

"Just now," Isaac shrugs.

"Where's Peter?" Scott hisses.

"Where do you think?" Lydia says airily, "He took off with his tail between his legs."

"No surprises there," Stiles rolls his eyes. At least she thinks he does, because he's still standing behind her.

“There’s something wrong with the house,” Scott tells her.

Lydia snorts, “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Stiles shakes his head, “No… there’s an illusion around it. There was a lady but she wasn’t real. She kind of evaporated.”

“An illusion?” Lydia asks, “It stops people worrying. Stops people realising there is something wrong. I mean unless you’re like me or…”

"Oh my god, _Jethro_!" Nate complains right on time, as he leaps up, grabbing the attic cord and yanking the door down in a cloud of dust and steps that come falling down on top of him, "Jethro!" Nate hisses, frantic and worried.

Scott looks alarmed, "This is a bad idea," he shakes his head, "We don't know what's up there - if it's a demon--"

"It's here," Jethro repeats, and he vanishes up the step ladder surprisingly quickly.

For a moment there is an awkward silence for the remaining seven pack members, standing there, jaws open. Isaac looks like he wants to make some sort of witty comment but can't think of any good ones. Stiles is generally just dumbfounded by Jethro's recklessness and Nate looks really tired and fed up with her friend.

"Oh for the love of--" Lexi is the one who moves first, starting up the ladder. "We can't just leave him up there!" she protests, when Nate makes as if to complain.

Lydia doesn't think following the teenager whose sanity is questionable is the best decision Scott's made in his short time at being alpha. The attic's roof slopes along the one side, but is so stacked with boxes that it’s impossible to see the point where the roof and floor meet. She ignores Stiles’ murmured debate with himself as he worries about his new pet, before eventually telling her to stay down there.

No wonder Stiles didn’t usually have pets.

The middle of the loft is tall enough to stand upright in, although Isaac has to hunch over a little bit. It takes a while to get them all up there, but the loft is surprisingly spacious, and once up Scott moves to the side where Jethro has placed himself.

"There--" he looks around, "There's nothing here."

"Think again."

Jethro is staring at the far corner as a sleek form slips from the shadows that seem to cling to her skin. She's short, the girl that steps forwards, short blonde hair that is rough, stylishly scruffy. The smile that lingers on her face is not nice. "Look who decided to join in the fun?"

The old lady who was at the door before is trussed up in the corner, malnourished but ok. Possibly the demon needed her alive to maintain the illusion. To stop people asking questions.

"Luke?" it slips out before the youngest wolf can stop it, and then her gaze hardens and she lets out a low growl. Allison pulls out her daggers and there is a low growl as Isaac and Nate wolf out almost simultaneously. Lydia feels fingers around her wrist pulling her back and away and she moves with the grip until she is pressed against Stiles’ body.

He's holding a baseball bat. "Really?" she stares at it.

He shrugs.

"Dantalion," Scott snarls.

"Hey," the demon girl chirps, grinning, "Miss me?"

Nate lunges forwards with a snarl but Jethro surprisingly is the one who holds her back, staring warily at the demon. The air around him shimmers in a green haze that he seems barely able to control.

"Where's Luke you bitch?!" Nate snarls, struggling against Jethro, "Where is he?! Give him back!"

"Nuh uh! It's just me in here!"

"You're lying!" Lexi sounds almost hysterical.

The girl grins, "Nope. Cross my heart," and she mocking traces a finger across her chest. Lexi lets out a sob of anger and anguish and the demon flashes her eyes, a bright sickly green that is nothing compared to the pure emerald of Jethro's aura. "Aww, gonna' cry? Little puppy gonna' cry? Don't worry. I'll make it aaaall better."

She grins then, dark and it makes Lydia's skin crawl. It makes he want to scream and in her ears someone does. The demon gestures towards the corner where the lady is trussed up, and for a moment her frantic eyes meet Lydia's. The banshee can almost hear her thoughts, panic and terror, and judging by the way Jethro's aura sparks, he obviously can too.

"No!" Jethro shouts, starting forwards, Isaac only a second behind before the old lady's head snaps back, a cry piercing the air, muffled by the gag.

"Too late," Dantalion shrugs. Lydia watches as the woman writhes slightly, shaking in her bindings. Her neck twists, and that's when they can see something moving underneath the skin, travelling slowly but steadily over her neck.

It's not the only one. Other misshapen lumps spread slowly across under her clothes, as if there are insects burrowing through the flesh. The woman lets out a moan and Scott snarls, stalking forwards.

"Oh you're no fun," Dantalion steps back, sighing, "I just wanted to decorate a little," she shrugs, "This place can use some colour."

She barely finishes speaking than whatever was burrowing under the woman bursts, little red blisters exploding. There is a wet gurgle as the woman's throat explodes, colour spraying in an arc over the wall and Scott flinches back from the spray of blood.

"How could you--" Jethro looks for the demon who is no longer there. "No!"

The energy that has been building under his skin hazes, suddenly crackling in the air like green electricity. "No!" Nate snaps, backing away alarmed and protectively reaching out to grab her sister with her. Lydia can feel it in her veins, the rich chocolate taste of power that saturates the air, and for a moment she hears the scream around her, as the air thins.

For a second she thinks she can see through the air, through the veil and the lost figures, into the burning fire and cold ice fields beyond, but then the air ripples and cracks in half.

They all are pulled through it.

***

"We have nothing to say to you," Sam says calmly as he and Dean tighten their grips on the angel blades, stepping towards where the red-eyed demon stands regarding them with scarlet eyes, "Unless you fancy telling us what you want in this town?"

"You haven't figured it out yet?" Bael leers at them, scornful. "The great Brothers Grimm haven't figured out our master plan. I thought you at least, Samuel, might have guessed. After all the fun you had there."

"Had where?" Sam asks, at the same time Dean repeats, "Brothers Grimm?"

The demon's sneer drops, "Like the fairy tale authors, dumbass," he curls his lip in disgust, "They used to be hunters, did you know not?" he shrugs, "Random trivia of the day for ya'."

Sam notes how the demon hadn't answered his question, "Where?" he repeats, "What are you talking about?"

The demon presses his lips together, "Nu uh. Can't be giving away the master plan." he holds up one finger, "If you don't mind, keep talking," he gestures with one hand, "This conversation is scintillating, keep going, really," he takes a step back, head turning, "Carry on," he gestures.

"That's it," Dean mutters, "I'm going to stab him." he starts forwards and Sam steps in front of his brother. Dean's getting more and more reckless the longer he has that accursed mark on his arm.

"You really think that's gonna’ work?" Bael seems unimpressed. In general he seems to be a very negative demon, pouting almost at them, "Something like that’s not gonna’ work on something like me," he drawls, full of confidence.

"Like a fallen angel?" Sam challenges, "Oh yeah, watch us try!"

"Oh, you really did your research, didn't you?" another voice speaks up, stepping from the shadows behind Bael.

Her eyes glow a sickly green.

Dean steps back without any encouragement from Sam. "I take it you're Dantalion."

The female demon grins, "I'm flattered you've heard of my name," she chirps, "My reputation precedes me." she leers at the brothers, "Awww, Baayyy-elll," she draws out his name coo-ing, "You never told me they were _this_ cute."

Bael doesn't reply, pulling out a stopwatch, "Mind waiting a few seconds more boys?" he asks, "There is just something we need to check--" he barely finishes than the air crackles as if lightning has just struck.

With a violent crack, there is a flash of bright green light and out of nowhere the dark-haired teen called Jethro stumbles out, collapsing to the ground along with the rest of the pack.

"What the--"

"Oh fuck--"

"You've got to be kidding me. Now." Dean's deadpan makes Allison and Nate look up at them, the former very confused. " _Now_?" Dean looks like he wants to throw down his angel sword, "Now? He decides to show off that he's a freaking feathered serpent _now_?"

"Twenty," the blonde demons holds out her hand, "You owe me," she chirps.

Bael's expression doesn't change as he passes over the money.

"Jethro?" the long-haired thirteen year old helps him to his feet, the guy tired but none the worse for wear. He wouldn't be, Sam considers, considering he was siphoning off the supernatural energy in the area, of which there was plenty. Sam spots Lydia, the strawberry blonde's limbs tangled up with the 'we can't pronounce your first name' Stilinski. The rest are also shoving themselves up, slightly to the left of where Sam and Dean are standing.

They're also closer to the demons and Dean is already sidestepping to stand in front of them.

Scott snarls, fully wolfed out and both brother's first instinct is to stab him, but he's not even look at them. He's looking at the demons lounging around and chatting about _bets_ of all things.

They still don't seem to care when Jethro collapses onto Stiles' and Lydia's shoulders, or when Isaac joins Scott snarling. Sam notices that Peter Hale has scuttled back into whatever burrow he had crawls out of. It was just as well because otherwise Sam or Dean were likely to have shot him. There was still a wolfsbane bullet with his name on. The Argent girl is twisting around a pair of ring daggers with admirable skill while the two blonde sisters stand, still human and staring at the female demon, alternating the occasional glance towards their friend.

"I'm going to kill you for this," Nate remarks calmly to him. Jethro winces.

Sam and Dean use this interval to turn towards Jethro.

"Why didn't you tell us you were a Quetzalcoatl?" Dean snaps.

"A quatza-what-le?" Stiles chokes out.

"What?" Jethro just looks tired and confused and none of them know what the brothers are talking about.

"A Quetzalcoatl? Feathered green Aztec serpent? Or just a coatl… but really you… you didn't know?" Sam hisses, almost shouting, and simultaneously glaring at the demons who look stupidly smug.

Dantalion whistles, "You really _didn't_ _know_?" she laughs, "I mean, I didn't believe Naamah when she told me, but - _wow_." She raises her eyebrows, "You're really clueless, huh?" she spins around laughing like a careless child.

"Does it matter?!" Scott beseeches, half-snarling half pleading. "We still want you gone."

"And what are you going to kill us with?" Bael raises one eyebrow, and even though they're outnumbered, two demons against a pack and two hunters, they don't look intimidated.

"You really want to go there?" Dean grins, and there's a light in his eyes that makes Sam uneasy, and some part of him knows that if Dean had that first jawbone in his hands right now the pair of demons would probably be dead already.

As it is, Crowley is still MIA with the first blade, the best weapon they have are angel swords, werewolf claws, a banshee's screams and a snake's energy.

"You think we're just going to up and leave?" Dantalion skips forwards a couple of steps, almost tauntingly, "Just like that? Nuh uh, we've got biiiiiig plans for this place."

"Don't spoil all the plot points," Bael drawls, his voice sleek.

"What plot points?" Scott asks, and his eyes flash werewolf red. " _What_ are you doing here?" The alpha is trying to take control, keeping half and eye on his own wolf pack, including the three who are most at risk near the back, another wary eye on the hunters and the remainder of his attention on the demons. Next to him Nate's claws are showing through slightly and her eyes are a funny mix of orange and red.

You're too late." Dantalion taunts, voice strong and seeping a sick joy that makes their skin crawl. "We already have everything we need." she grins, and it's razor sharp, cutting and blood red. "Which is why," she continues, "As interesting as you are, we don't need you."

She flicks a hand, and Sam and Dean both duck away from the telekinetic powers. They're all too experienced with them, but the wolves aren't, stumbling as the ground below them shakes. Dantalion has caused earthquakes before, and now she does once again.

The train carriage behind the pack groans and then slowly begins to tip over.

Pushing himself to his feet, Sam calls out, "Scott!" and when the werewolf looks he throws his angel blade towards the wolf. With uncanny reflexes the alpha catches it, finding his balance and diving forwards, driving the blade into Dantalion’s torso.

The demon laughs, staggering backwards away from him. For a moment she actually doubles over, but then with a snarl and a flash of green eyes she straightens, pulling it out.

Meanwhile there is a creak as the train carriage is dislodged, and the pack standing there struggle to move out of the way. With a crash it falls down, Isaac and Nate still sprawled along the ground, vanishing as the metal carriage completes its right-angle turn. Lexi lurches sideways out of the way, narrowly missing having her legs crushed by the huge metal work, while Stiles and Lydia duck down with Jethro between them. He's kind of being the awkward third wheel as the other two end up clinging to each other, heads ducked together and shoulders bowed as they crouch down where the window can fall on top of them. Allison is closer to the brothers, but makes a step towards her friends, mouthing a name before Scott can get there, knocking her aside.

Sam yanks Dean forwards, away from the train and towards where Dantalion and Bael stand, "Leave them alone!" Sam glares at the demon, "They have nothing to do with this."

"Oh Sammy," Bael laughs, “This has everything to do with them. They’re the ones that made all this possible.”

"Isaac!" Allison is on her knees, clawing at a roof door to the carriage, "Lydia!" Scott joins her next to the huge metal body of the train, straining to lift it.

"Nate!" Lexi cries out, joining them seconds later.

"Well that was fun," Dantalion shrugs, and Bael grins, eyes shining red and his teeth bared. “Now it’s your turn.”

Sam makes to draw up his blade, but it's gone, on the floor behind the demon. Dean has his own blade, but it's not going to do anything. These demons are too old, too powerful, too much of a mix between demon and angel to do anything.

"Nice try," Bael shrugs, stalking towards them like a predator, teeth bared and his eyes crimson. He barely makes it three steps forwards before something shimmers in front of them, arms lashing out and for once it is the demon's turn to be thrown backwards out of the way. Dantalion staggers backwards, a shocked cry being torn from her throat and eyes wide, slipping back to blue as she spins and vanishes. Bael shoves himself up, taking in the sight of the two Winchesters and a ghost standing before him.

With a muted snarl he vanishes from view as well.

Sam's gaze snaps into focus on the shimmering ghost in front of him, blinking at its static form tries to settle.

The EMF metre in Sam's pocket whines, turning itself on as the form finally settles, solidifying into sight.

Dean's jaw drops open and both brother's speak in sync as the figure half-turns towards them.

" _Adam_?"

There is a weak grin on the spectre's face, before his form flickers and vanishes from sight.


	34. Seeping Through The Cracks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Stiles refers to ‘Circles of Hell’ in Co-Captain s01e10 and while this is probably a common thing for people to be aware of, I like to think that he might well have actually read Dante’s ‘Inferno’ during one of his research binges. He probably would have because of the gruesome punishments.)

There is glass along his back, digging in, and arms around his shoulders and a warm pulsing heart beat next to his own.

Stiles cranks open one eye, to see the dim interior of the train. He relaxes slightly, because Jethro is curled up just ahead of him, and Lydia is tucked against his side. Around them is the shattered glass of the window of the train that had crashed down on top of them, and the train itself is still sitting on its side around them.

"Jethro?" Stiles asks, because he can feel Lydia's heart beat next to him, but Jethro, after doing his energy teleportation after the demon and then having a train chucked on top of him is probably worse for wear.

"Am I still alive?" Jethro groans, shifting his hand from where he had flung it over his eyes, "I don't know whether to be relieved or disappointed."

"Hey!" there is pounding on the train wall. It's actually the roof, but after tipping so violently it's now the wall. "Hey guys! You okay?"

It's one of the hunters, and Stiles doesn't know them well enough to know which one. "We're fine, Dean!" Lydia calls back, shifting from next to him, "What happened about the demons?"

"They took off!" Allison's voice joins the others.

"Why do things keep collapsing on me?" Stiles bemoans, thinking at least this time Lydia is with him. He tugs her up with him, and reaches out a hand for Jethro to take.

"I feel like a train fell on me," Jethro groans again, and he opens with one eye, grinning to see how well his joke has been taken. Stiles meets his gaze, unimpressed. He’s also in the thought process of wondering where the hell Derek found this subway car, which -- considering there's not even a subway line anywhere near the town, so where did that come from? Did he have it imported?

"Are Nate and Isaac in there with you?" Lexi calls.

Stiles looks about the train, and Jethro lurches forwards as if he's drunk. "Nate's here!" he calls.

"Stop shouting," the girl grumbles, "Just stop," she waves from over by a seat. There's another window nearby that she had let fall on her. Jethro sinks down on a seat next to her, perching on it sideways and staring at her as if to check that she's alright. Glass cuts on her face are healing already, and Stiles winces as he attempts to orientate himself in the sideways carriage.

"Isaac isn't!" he yells out for the others to hear him.

"That's okay - he got under," Scott's voice is strained, "Now he and Allison are making out."

Stiles pauses to register that, "If you kick him out of the house he's not staying with me," he complains.

"I've been kicked out," Scott whines, "He can't stay with me!"

"Make him stay with Allison!"

"Her dad might kill me!"

"How are you and Scott even friends?" Lydia looks like she wants to roll her eyes at their situation.

"That's a good question," one of the hunters comments, and there is a loud crash as they hit something against the side of the train.

"He followed me home," Scott shouts from outside.

"Scott let me follow him home." Stiles says at the same time.

Lydia's huff of annoyance goes unheard as part of the train caves under whatever the guys outside are doing to it. It looks like a roof door that they somehow managed to lever open.

"Fuck my life," he mutters, as he helps Lydia towards their exit, "My life is weird."

"You're saying that to a banshee," Lydia reminds him.

"Screw that," Jethro scoffs behind him, "This town is weird."

"No weirder than any other town!" Stiles defends.

"Dude," Stiles turns just in time to see Jethro shake his head, "There is a wolf pack made out of two werewolves, a banshee, a hunter and a human, your ley lines are off the chart for all kinds of magnetic fields, there is literally a giant dead tree beacon and three of you see ghosts. Not to mention I'm pretty sure the economics teacher keeps talking to an imaginary student."

Stiles has no good reply for that.

***

Everything was so messed up.

Dean considers his options for a moment before deciding that no, that was an accurate summation of the situation.

The dual werewolf pack of four are all healing, and they all finally have shifted back to human and the gold and red eyes have slipped back to normal human colours. The coatl kid won't leave Sam alone, questions running out of his mouth in an endless stream.

"So can I do anything other than manipulate energy?"

"Weather - I think. People used to pray to your kind for a successful harvest."

"Awesome! I'm like Storm! Except I don't have the hot black chick thing going for me."

"For the love of--" Dean winces from the endless babble as they enter the loft, and Lydia shoots him a sympathetic smile.

"So maybe next time," she says, "You won't be so quick to leave us behind."

"Maybe next time," he mocks her, "You won't be so quick to teleport straight into trouble."

"It wasn't that bad," the young Argent tries to find some sort of positive. "They didn't do anything."

"Yet," Stiles spits out. Dean likes the kid, hyperactive as he is, because he has the right outlook on things. "Yet. They haven't done anything yet, which means they have yet to do stuff, and they have yet to go on a murdering rampage."

"Well we aren't dead," Isaac offers.

Stiles snorts, "That's because it's more fun watching us struggle. They're evil," he shrugs, "It must amuse them."

"Evil?" Dean asks, "What do you know about evil, Stilinski?"

The teen flails for a little as the door to the loft slides open. "I once managed to convince Derek to bake cookies while cheerful pop music played on the radio. It was great. He was listening to it with this sulky expression on his face. Angrily listening to it, because he couldn’t figure out how to turn the radio off," he announces, one finger waving in the air as he makes his point.

Dean considers this as he follows behind. Stiles continues to walk backwards, "That is pretty evil," Scott acknowledges with a tired grin. It's late, the sun is setting outside and they're all dust covered, weary and frustrated.

And confused. They have bits and pieces of the story and can’t figure out the plot yet. That and every time Dean blinks he sees the ghostly figure of his half-brother flickering out of sight, leaving behind a hollow pit in his stomach.

"I need to get drunk," the older Winchester pauses before orientating himself in the middle of the loft and making for a door at the far end with a happy sound, "There better be alcohol in your kitchen," he shouts over his shoulder.

"We have a kitchen?" Scott frowns and looks about to as if the kitchen door is going to magically open with a glow of light and a singing choir.

Dean pauses a metre from said door, spinning around. "You've been hanging out here for how many months?" he asks disgusted, "And you haven't wondered where the food comes from?"

"Not really…"

Stiles gapes open-mouthed at his friend. "It's like I don't even know you," he shakes his head in disgust.

" _Derek_ has a kitchen?" Scott asks, wide-eyed.

"Oh, Scotty-boy, Alpha of my heart," Stiles wraps one arm around Scott's shoulder, patting him on the chest with his other hand, "He still has to eat. It takes energy to lurk and look good while doing so."

"Okay, who is this Derek I keep hearing about?" Dean asks. He’s confused with what this has to do with his booze or food.

"A creepy-leather-jacketed guy who lives out in the woods in a burned out house."

"Oh, you mean Derek Hale," Stiles has no idea where Sam got 'Hale' from that, but he just nods. "The fugitive?" Sam frowns.

Stiles and Scott cough, "No - not technically," Stiles draws out the word, "We might have accidentally accused him of incorrectly being a serial killer?"

"How do you accidently accuse someone of being a serial killer?" Jethro frowns, trying to work out how that accident must come to pass.

"Who cares?" Nate shoves past her friend, heading towards where Dean stands half-way to the kitchen door. "Food sounds good," her grin is, "Like, really good. We can talk over food, right guys?"

***

"So our problems--" the gang all lounge about the loft in various places, while Stiles stalks in front of the wall of deaths. Nate stands to one side, her arms crossed. Jethro lounges unceremoniously on the table, munching on a bowl of lettuce of all things, while Lexi curls up at his side, watching with wide blue eyes. Sam awkwardly sits next to the pair, while his brother - younger or older Stiles has yet to work out, but he thinks older if the protective stiff stance is anything to go by - paces behind the sofa.

Scott and Isaac sit side by side, hands clasps in their laps like obedient little puppies - ahem - students, while Allison has drawn up a chair and is in the process of waxing her bow string, occasionally glancing up at him.

"Demons in town," Lydia lists off, perched on the edge of the table. Stiles ticks them off on his fingers as she goes through them, "People getting ill from the nemeton--"

"The neme-what?" Sam sits slightly straighter, "You didn't tell us about that!" he accuses Lydia.

"I didn't know," she twirls a strand of hair about her finger.

"I'll show you tomorrow," Allison promises them.

"People getting ill?" Dean presses, "How?"

Stiles glances between the hunters, "It affects the strongest personality trait--" he's suddenly uneasy, just because they're all immune doesn't mean everyone else is. If these two hunters are affected then the pack of werewolves sitting there probably aren't going to be safe. "It twists it. Changes the way people think and act. It gets worse and worse until eventually it kills you." he points to the map, "It affects the people in this radius more strongly but it's starting to spread." he widens the circle, to include his, Allison's and Scott's house within the circle. It now covers half the town, including the loft.

"Why aren't you affected?" Sam asks, gesturing at everyone, "Are you too young?"

"We're werewolves," Isaac says, "And I guess a banshee and quatze-whatever--"

"KETS-ull-KOH-ahtl," Sam pronounces, "Or you can just stick with coatl." Isaac smiles and nods but keeps silent, the look on his face saying he's not going to be caught dead trying to pronounce that.

"It makes us immune," Scott leans forwards.

"So why aren’t you affected by this illness?" Sam asks Stiles and Allison, pointing at them. "You're both human, right? Is it because you're part of the pack?"

"No, we sacrificed ourselves to a tree," Stiles says, seriously. He has to repeat himself though, "No, we actually sacrificed ourselves to the Nemeton. It kind of gives us immunity. At least that's the theory since our working expert is currently saving little fluffy bunnies and kittens."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"This Nemeton," Dean steps forwards to the map, "It's--" he circles around where Stiles had been pointing, "There-ish?"

"There," Stiles points it out to him on the map. The house they had been checking out isn’t nearby, but he makes a note of the address. They have to go back there at some point to pick up Allison and Scott’s car and his dog. And maybe even inform his dad about the dead woman in the attic.

Dean crosses his arms, his expression dark as he turns around to Sam, "It's like Wyoming."

"What?" Sam's on his feet in an instance, and the werewolves tense.

"Like what in Wyoming?" Lexi looks up at him, asking the thing everybody wants to hear.

"The Devil's Gate," Dean says, "A hell mouth," he adds, looking around, and Stiles' blood runs cold. "A door way to Hell."

There's an awkward silence and Lydia taps her heels, "Well that would explain the demons."

"That house you found?" Sam sinks back down again, "The barriers between dimensions are weaker there, which is presumably why the demon was hanging there. She was checking it out to see if they could break through. She’s been there a while even, if she went to the trouble of the illusion."

"I could tell." the red-head's gaze grows distance, "I could almost hear through… hear the other side..."

"Is that why--" Jethro starts awkwardly, "If I can manipulate energy, being this - Quartz coat thing--"

"Quetzalcoatl. But mostly just a coatl. Quetzalcoatl was the god, and then he sort of had descendants that had some of his powers and…"

"Yeah, yeah, that... If that was a supernatural hotspot them it was basically a big energy pool. It explains why last time I was out of it for a month, and even then I think I needed a kick-start."

"I slept with you." Lexi bursts out.

"You what!" Nate almost shrieks and despite being used to Lydia's banshee shriek, people cover their ears.

"Not like that," Lex blushes, "I curled up next to him and then woke up really tired. What if he siphoned off my energy..." She stops, startled, "Oh my god," she turns to Jethro, "You're an energy stealing incubus!"

"He's a snake," Allison spins the laptop around from where she has sneaked off the table. Her bow sits beside her and people turn to where she stands by the window, laptop glow lighting up her face. Stiles recognises the archaic Latin bestiary, but there are giant comment boxes on it with an English translation that Lydia had been working on. "He's a Mesoamerican Aztec snake. Although obvious unless he wants to 'shed his skin' or whatever, he's going to remain in human form. And unless he can manipulate the weather, he mostly just controls energy. Aura. Manipulates and reads it."

"I don't look like that!" Jethro shifts out of the way with a squeak. Lexi falls over slightly as he stands, slipping around the sofa to go and peer at the picture.

Sam shrugs, "We've met another guy like you once. So we kind of knew what you were once we saw."

"Didn't you parents tell you?" Dean asks.

"Adopted." Jethro shrugs, unbothered as he leans over the laptop. Allison leaves him to head back towards the rest of the group.

"So what if this illness, this personality thing, what if it's not from the Nemeton. What if it's from the hell mouth?" she offers.

"The Nemeton's dead, you said?" Dean asks.

Stiles nods, "It was," he says, pointing to a picture of the giant trunk. It still sends shivers down his spine, "It was cut down. We did a sacrifice back to it to try and bring it back to power, making it a beacon again."

"But it's still not doing its job," Sam says, "If this is a giant tree of protection, then it's not protecting anymore. And if it's not protecting then hell can seep through. Now the demons just wants to find that crack and break it and-- wait--" he turns back to Stiles with a frown, "You _died_?" he emphasises, "How?"

"We slept in an ice cold water bath for hours." Stiles says, and for once he's serious. "It slowed down our heart beats, put us in a trance-like state and we sort of died and ended up in this white room Purgatory--"

Dean snorts his brother glares at him. Stiles wonders what that is about but continues talking.

"It was linked to the Nemeton and we each had visions of it. Deaton says we opened a door in our minds, but we're not quite sure what that means. I actually have this theory that when he was younger Deaton was cursed by an evil witch to never be able to say something. Either that or he's actually a sphinx." He doubted both theories, but out of the many he has considered those are the most likely

"I always thought he was in the mafia," Scott shrugs. “But every time I bring it up he distracted me.

Stiles looks at him as if he is crazy.

Scott shrugs, “I’ve gotten three raises by now.” He says. Stiles whistles appreciately.

“Nice.”

"Back to the point here, it's the Nemeton that's affecting everyone, but it's not affecting you guys because you're either supernatural or supernaturally changed." Sam summarises. "Or death. Death might work."

"So who here has died?" Nate mockingly jokes.

It's almost expected that Stiles, Allison and Scott raise their hand. But the hunters is a surprise. They sigh about it, exchanging a glance and raising their hands. They act as if it is something they do every other week.

Then again, Stiles considers, looking at the scars on their arms which make them look as if they've been crucified, they might well do.

Jethro too raises one hand, "Heart stopped for ten minutes," he shouldn't sound so proud of it, but Lexi hits him before Nate is able to. “I uh… back when I was in a coma. Low on energy and by the time Nate and Lexi got me to the hospital well…” he ducks his head, sad suddenly.

Scott is glaring at the hunters with open confusion, "How the hell did you die?" he asks, accusingly.

"Which time?" Dean sighs.

Nate splutters, "What do you mean which time? How many times have you died?"

Dean opens his mouth to reply and then stops. He then starts counting on his fingers. Sam too considers this, "Does near death count?" he asks, "Or travelling to other realms willingly?"

His brother is mouthing numbers and counting on his fingers before triumphantly announcing, "One hundred and ten."

Sam sighs and rolls his eyes. "I don't know," he says, when the pack turn their expectant gazes to him, "About… six...eight?" he shrugs.

"We're regular Dante's," Dean shrugs.

Stiles stares at him as if Dean has just revealed he's a billionaire. "Say that again," the teenager announced, because what Dean had just said rings a bell. He's read so much recently on all sorts of supernatural myths and theories that it shouldn't take long before he can pick out the right one.

"What? That I've died on hundred and ten times?" Dean curls his lip, "Kid, I'm not proud of that. Especially since one hundred of those deaths were because there was a guy obsessed with my brother and I…"

"No," Stiles shakes his head, pinpointing what had caught his attention. "That thing you said about Dante. That was the dude who travelled to the three realms right?"

The hunters frown, not sure what he's getting at. Surprisingly from the pack it is Nate who gets it first, gasping as it hits her, "The punishments," she whispers, and Stiles grins at her.

"I knew I liked you," he nods in her direction, then turns back to the gang, "Anybody read Dante?" There are blank faces, "Wait… nobody has read Dante?"

"Who… who is Dante?"

"Inferno," Sam breaths suddenly, and almost as if the brothers are telepathic the hotter one (Stiles did not just think that) frowns.

"Wait… the seven circle punishments? Which is scarily accurate by the way..." Dean trails off as Sam lurches towards his bag but Stiles is already pulling out a laptop.

"It's the epic poem," Nate explains, "Written by this guy who supposedly travels down through Hell, then up through Purgatory and up to Heaven. In Hell and Purgatory people are punished in different ways, depending on their sins. The lustful burn in the fires of passion and the prideful are forced to carry rocks equal to the weight of their pride…" she stops because she can see that the others understand it now, that something has just clicked.

"We already knew people died due to their flaws," Allison says, "But to have some of the deaths be so iconic to the sins?"

"It's linked to the demons." Sam interrupts, "According to Cas, each one represents a sin. I think you're onto something."

"If we know what demon is which sin, we can link each death to each demon."

"And then work out which ones have risen!"

"Stiles, you're fantastic."

Stiles grins wildly, "I know." he sounds proud. "I'm amazing. Don't all thank me at once."


	35. Who Will Save You Now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Stiles gets quite badly hurt in the last POV section here. There is torture, cruel words, and I should probably have put this warning up a while ago.

The thing about Hell is: it exists.

And it's sitting right under their town, just waiting to break free. Already it's bleeding through the gaps, the wounds that they have caused in the town.

Soon it's going to rip open all together, creak open ominously and pour out.

This is massive, bigger than anything she’s ever even dreamed of. Yet here in the woods, trees swaying overhead with gentle blossoms and the breeze tugging at her skin, it’s hard to imagine that anything is wrong. Allison takes a deep breath, the forest sounds washing over her.

There is the gentle sound of bickering in the background that just slightly ruins the moment, and reminds her that not all is well. The wolves are camped out somewhere up north, and the last Allison had seen of them the two boys were getting a thorough ass-kicking from the small blonde alpha who had decided they needed some much needed lessons in self-defence. Although according to Isaac, Derek's training methods were worse.

She wishes Lydia or Stiles had agreed to come along, but both didn't want to come anywhere near the Nemeton after the last time they had been there. It made sense considering the dead body they had found. The forest section is still roped off with police tape.

So it's just her, leading the brothers through the trees towards the death clearing.

The hunters scare Allison. They're all splinters and broken shards, and they seem so haunted.

A part of her sees herself in them, a decade down the line if she went the life of her dad, hunting down monsters.

She's glad that she's stepped back to protecting people. It's given her purpose that these two seem to have lost. Or maybe they're lost in the bigger picture because their small picture has become so blurred, the black mixing with the white.

There are shades of grey that are dark enough to be black, and these brothers walk that line.

"So--" she decides to bring up the topic that nobody has broached yet, "Who's Adam?"

Both brothers go silent, dark eyed and tongue-tied. She thinks that this is risky, poking at wounds, but neither hunter had offered anything yet, and she thinks they really need to know.

"Because our ghosts - they've all been bad. We salted everything, and that keeps them away. Obviously now we know they're from the veil, or the Hell Gate, and we’re the only ones who can see them because we’re tied to the Nemeton and therefore tied to the Hell Gate, but is this guy--"

"He's our brother," Dean says shortly.

Her mouth opens in a small 'oh' of surprise. "He looked young," she remembers the pale face, just a bit older than her. "What-- what happened to him?"

Judging by the way they both shift, neither of them have spoken with each other about this, "He died," Sam replies, tense and guilty, "We had a chance to save him but we-- didn't get there in time--"

Dean snorts quietly, "What do we say?" he spreads his hands out, lips twisting into a bitter, derisive grin, "He got possessed by an archangel and then Sammy dragged him into a cage with Lucifer."

"Okay," Allison says, weakly, when really she's thinking 'what the ever loving--?"

"And we left him there." Dean continues, and his voice is so light that it's like sliding glass on a chalk board, "We left him in hell to rot. I--" he stops, and glances at Sam, but says no more. She wishes she hadn't brought this up now and so she stays silent, and doesn't ask anymore.

"You should be at school," Dean grumbles, "Why aren't you at school again?"

"You didn't hear?" Allison pauses, surprised, "School's closed for the week. They found one kid dead from overworking, stressing out over finals or something and they decided to give us a week off."

"Diligence," Sam pipes up, "Opposite of sloth. Looks like it's getting worse again."

"Is that guy poking around? The fed we talked to?"

"Hey, isn't he a relative of Scott?" Dean frowns, "The one who looks like a blowfish… Agent McCall…"

Allison stumbles over nothing, choking on laughter, "Yeah, that's Scott's dad."

Dean looks worried for a moment, "Don't tell him I said that."

She shakes her head, biting her lip to stop herself form laughing. Looking up, she spots a familiar sight through the trees. "Well that's it," she draws up shortly, her footsteps drawn to the beacon, the path so familiar she thinks she could get here in her sleep. She stops on the edge of the circle of dying things and watches as both brothers snap into hunter mode, stalking in different directions around the trunk.

"Well that looks pretty damn dead," Dean pokes a boot toe at the body of a dead bird. It's not rotting, and looks fresh. "What do you think would happen if we stepped in there?"

"Do you want to find out?" Sam is waving a device around, and it whines slightly.

"No, not really." Dean shakes his head. "I don't think there's anything here of use," he's standing the other side of the circle now, and he meets Allison's gaze straight on, "Has anyone died here?" he asks.

Allison shakes her head, “The murder was just over there,” she points to the yellow tape just visible through the forest.

He beckons her over, "Are you sure?" he asks, and she stands next to him as he points something out. "Look at that."

She follows where he is pointing, not seeing for a while but then she does. The ground is a darker shade, and on the tree itself there are specks of rust brown. "Blood," she realises. It's old, and should have been long gone by now, but the magic that tingles like static in the air preserves the living red. "Do you think that set all this off?"

"It would have done a great job at it," Sam shrugs, still the other side of the circle waving the whining device around. With a sigh he turns it off, pocketing it. "Combined with a triple sacrifice from you and your friends--"

"So you guys were dead?" Allison asks the brothers as she picks her way along the dead life border. It feels kind of symbolic in a way, if there really is a gate way to hell under the town. "How did you get out of that?" She's curious, if slightly relieved. She doesn't want to be around her father much, with the new attitude he has going for him. She's always known he can be scary, but lately he's as terrifying as anything she's ever encountered. It's a relief that whatever shenanigans these two have been through mean that they too are immune from the craziness in the town. They're not total friends, but she's getting used to them, and it feels good to have at least two adults they can trust and who know sort of what they're dealing with.

"We got better," they say in sync. She smiles. They remind her of Scott and Stiles. Dean has Stiles' genre savvy pop culture knowledge while having Scott's hero and people orientated thing going for him, while Sam has Stiles' research mode, along with Scott's sense of right and wrong and general attitude.

"We heading back?" Sam asks as she finishes crossing the circle.

"Yeah," Dean nods, "You reckon the wolves are still playing fetch?"

"A dog joke?" Sam sighs, "Really? Out of all the dog related humour you went with that?"

Allison's lips twitch, "Scott and Isaac sit and stay when I tell them too," she inputs her own voice into the conversation.

"Thatta' girl," Dean grins as if he's proud of her, and it makes her feel weirdly comfortable. "You're a hunter's girl through and through."

"And proud of it," she meets his gaze.

"Well if the wolves are play fighting--” Sam shrugs, "--and the others are doing who-knows-what, do you want to practise too?"

"Practise?"

"Shooting?" Dean spins around so he's walking backwards. He almost walks into a tree, but the grin on his face and spark in his eye is full of friendly competitiveness. She feels a sudden impulse to prove herself to them, to prove her worth.

She's a hunter too, retired or not.

She smiles at them, because while what's underneath these brothers terrifies her, scares her to death, the surface is relatable to herself. "That...sounds good. Great, actually. That sounds great. I could use the extra target practise." Her grin is wicked.

Dean looks slightly taken aback by her enthusiasm. "Remind me not to get on her bad side," he whispers to his brother, and Allison moves past him, feeling like she's found her small patch of calm amidst the chaos of their lives.

That's when they hear the scream.

***

"So you're a feathered Mesoamerican serpent," Stiles reads out. He's printed out the translated pages from the bestiary, along with whatever else he could find, "That apparently represents the gap between earth and sky."

Jethro stands in the leafy woods looking unimpressed. The preserve is beautiful at this time of year, with the blossoms on the trees, but that’s not what they’re here for.

Stiles calls it practise. He also calls it ‘pushing the supernatural creature to breaking point’ but only Scott appears to be aware of that name.

"They used to be worshipped as gods of sun, wind, wisdom and culture and could control elemental energies. It's why he - Quetzalcoatl, the god dude - used to be worshipped, since he, and probably you too - can control rain, wind, sometimes even using the wind to fly. They can - get this - teleport, between dimensions, and sense changes in the atmosphere. Bam." Stiles pumps his fist, "That sound like you or not? You sense energy, can manipulate it, and we all got ourselves a teleportation ride first class!"

"Apparently you have wings," Lydia says snidely from where she stands next to a tree, looking uncomfortable and out of place in the middle of the woods. "Or at least a lot of feathers. In fact I'm surprised you haven't started moulting yet."

Jethro now just looks distinctly uncomfortable. "You guys suck," he announces, "This isn't telling me how to control my powers at all."

"Which is why you're here," Stiles gestures around him, "Here, in the forest, as opposed to in Derek's loft." Because this way at least Derek's loft stays intact. Not that Stiles really cares much about Derek, since the dude abandoned them for South America, but still, at least his loft makes a good base.

"And why are we here?" Lydia asks, "Apart from the fact the werewolves are play-fighting two miles north?"

"Because the forest has the Nemeton in it. That makes it special. More energy. Trees have life to start with, but you have to listen to the energy!"

The dark haired boy doesn't see what Stiles' is getting at. "Listen to the trees." He deadpans.

"Wha-- no, okay, okay. Close your eyes."

"What?" Jethro yelps.

"Close your eyes and stand there, okay? Stand there and relax."

"I feel stupid."

"You look stupid."

"Lydia shush. Stand there and listen to the trees rustling. Listen to the breeze, to the forest, to the werewolves howling in the distance despite the fact we told them to go even further so as not to make the townsfolk afraid and scared about wolves in California. So ignore the wolves and just, just listen. Listen and feel."

Stiles has no idea what he's doing, but then again he had no idea with the werewolf thing either but he still helped Scott find an anchor in Allison. He still knows to just let Lydia's senses lead her to the dead body, and he knows he's just got to get Jethro tuned into that next dimension of energy and aura and whatever else and then he can do the rest.

Although maybe not yet. Stiles watches as Jethro stands there, frowning in concentration. He exchanges a helpless glance with Lydia.

"Relax a bit," he calls out.

Jethro shakes his head, "I can't," he says, "It's like there's a spider crawling up my back. Is there a spider crawling up my back? Ugh," he shivers, "It's cold too. It's April, I thought it was meant to be warmer in April?"

Stiles sighs, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "Just, try to ignore that," he says. "Try and --" he stops, because Jethro is still shivering in little bouts, almost as if he's having a seizure.

"I can't," Jethro frowns, eyes still closed, "There's something--" he breaks off in a choke, eyes opening as he doubles over, gasping for air. His limbs spasm, "There's something dark." he staggers forwards, falling to his knees, brown eyes flashing green. "Something coming." Stiles startles forwards, because this was not what he wanted the training session to turn into.

"Here?" he asks, "Now? What is it? Where?"

Jethro's brown eyes glow eerily, and for a moment a spectrum of florescent green rests like a cloak across him, shimmering in the air like an aurora before fading from sight, "Now." he gasps out, gasping for breath, "Stiles, get the others--"

"Good senses," someone says, the tone unfamiliar and Stiles whirls around. Lydia opens her mouth to scream. It is cut off before it begins with a violent hand gesture. She clutches at her throat, unable to breath.

Stiles has never seen the man before, although he recognises the guy, not from the spiked up blonde hair but from the yellow eyes swirling with black obsidian. He knows the name - Belial. To mean worthless. He’s a duke of hell.

A demon.

"Oh-oh fuck." he swears stepping backwards and trying to pull Jethro up weakly by his friend’s jacket.

"Awww," the demon croons, tilting his head, "Don't be like that - I just came by to say 'hi'." he grins, flashing his teeth.

To the side Lydia lets out a little whimper and falls to her knees. "Stop it!" Stiles threatens, hoping the wolves can hear or smell them. But Lydia can't scream and they're downwind of the pack.

They won't know anything until it's too late.

"Let her go - you're killing her!"

"And--?" Belial shrugs, stepping forwards. Stiles tugs harder as where Jethro kneels on the ground. "The little banshee can't even manage to find one door!"

"Stop it," Jethro spits out, shoving away Stiles hand and standing, glaring at the demon. Stiles stumbles backwards, and then to the side towards Lydia. He crouches besides her, one hand on her shoulder but there is nothing he can do. She can't breathe. It's like there is an invisible hand around her throat.

She's being strangled again, and he can see that she knows that this time she might not be so lucky.

"Stop it!" Jethro shouts again, hands lashing out as if he's throwing something at the demon. There is a bright green flash that blinds Stiles for a moment. He blinks it away, spotting Jethro's silhouette, arms extended as the energy flickers outwards like a wave.

The demon snarls, eyes flaring yellow and he steps away, the energy dissipating away before it reaches him. Belial bats his hand to one side with one careless flick.

Jethro is flung aside. He hits a tree hard and slumps down, limp. The distraction is enough however, and while Stiles still blinks away bright spots, Lydia breathes in a lungful of air, shoulders sagging in relief.

"Lyds, are you okay, can you see me?" he waves a hand in front of her face as she blinks despondently, disconnected and lightheaded. "Lydia?" he asks.

For a moment her gaze focusses sharply on him and he sees her mouth his name. Then her sight drifts past him to something over his shoulder. Just as she finally opens her mouth to scream, fingers dig into Stiles' collar and yank him backwards.

***

The wail stops them all in their tracks, Isaac and Scott mid-brawl. They falls down onto the dirt, heads looking up, disorientated. The cry cuts off violently and suddenly but all four wolves know what they heard.

"Did you hear that?" Isaac asks, rather unnecessarily.

"Is that--?" Nate asks, already jogging down. "Are the others--?"

"Lydia. Something's wrong." Scott sums it all up, wriggling out from under Isaac, on his feet and making like a bullet down the preserve.

***

The ground falls away from under him as the demon drags him back. His back lands heavily on the ground as he is slammed down, Belial turning back to Lydia with an exaggerated sigh. The demon lashes out, and Lydia's banshee wail is cut out as Belial knocks her aside. She falls limply to the ground.

Stiles attempts to scramble upwards, pushing himself backwards as the yellow-eyed demon turns to him. He has no words, his biggest defence having left him in panic as Belial starts towards him.

"Why so scared?" the demon asks as Stiles flounders, slipping and despite his attempt to get away they both know there is no chance. The wolves are too far away, even if they did hear Lydia's scream. "You're just sitting there, waiting to be rescued - don't you get tired of that?"

Hands clench in the collar of his plaid shirt as the demon reaches him, leaning over as he crouches down next to him. Stiles finds his voice, "No, not really, I tend to live longer with people around to save my ass."

The demon laughs, and the fingers in Stiles' collar twist tighter and cruelly as the demon shifts his weight over until he is straddling Stiles, pinning him down. Stiles kicks but the demon's boot stamps down on his leg and stops that pretty quickly. His hands flail out and the demon lets go of his collar, only to reach out and twist. Stiles is vaguely aware of something cracking as he sinks back down, letting out a gasp of pain. "It would be much more fun…" Belial suggests, "If your little pack were here. But as it is…"

The demon punches him in the face. His head knocks around to one side, grazing slightly against some rocks on the ground, but that is nothing compared to the bruises and swelling he is going to have later. The demon lets go his collar fully to punch him again, the other side now so that his head feels like a punching bag.

"Now this?" Yellow-eyes leers at him. "This is fun." Stiles' head snaps to the side under the force of another blow, so hard it feels like his neck might snap. "Not like those bitches you hang around with." Another punch. His teeth rattle. "You're the weak link. Why do you think I'm here? Why do you think I'd target you - I mean - you're not special, you're nothing." the demon sneers, one hand grasping Stiles' throat and turning him so that he can't look anywhere but the yellow eyes about him. His hands thrash uselessly. "Don't you see?" he hisses, like a snake, "That's the point. Nobody cares about you. You're going to be our warning for your pack to stay away. I mean, even the other human - Argent - she has some skills going for her but you?" the demon's thumb traces Stiles' jawline, "You have nothing. Little boy who runs with wolves--" Belial's thumb slips up until it presses against Stiles' lips, his teeth below. With exaggerated movement the demon traces the curve of his mouth towards the left side of Stiles' face. “Don’t you want to be one? I’m sure I could arrange it…?”

Stiles tries to bite him, only to have his head slammed down to the side, leaving him dazed. Obviously irritated the demon somehow acquires a knife between one blink and the next, and Stiles can feel the cold metal pressed against the corner of his mouth.

"Don’t be like that,” the demon grins, “It’s simple,” he hums, “Take the teeth and push in fangs." Belial flashes his eyes, and Stiles feels the knife slip, tearing at the corner of his mouth and curling up along to the right along the left side of his face. It stings as the knife twists a path along his jawline, leaving behind a jagged lopsided smile. The demon lifts the knife up, licking at the blood on the blade, "Rip the nails and sew on claws. Boy who runs with wolves, shouldn't you be one?"

He laughs, short and harsh and buries the blade downwards. It sinks into his shoulder, pinning him to the ground and Stiles can't even focus on it, it's so close. He can’t even feel it really, except that would be a lie because it burns in a slow sharp piercing ache. A cry escapes his throat. That hurts too though, to even open his mouth, because the demon has just given him half a Glasgow smile. He can feel it bleeding out, like tears. It smarts, and he prays to whatever god is out there that it's not deep, that the skin isn't cut completely.

He doesn't dare move, trying to stop it bleeding out. He feels sick and he can taste the blood on his tongue.

As if sensing this, Belial digs his fingers into the wound, and Stiles can almost feel the flesh tearing, making the wound bigger. It’s a bitter sting, and with a hollow stomach Stiles’ feels himself draining away there and then. He fights in a breath, something warm running down the back of his throat and making him gag. "You know you're kind of pretty," the demon muses, "Tell me... have you spread your legs for your alpha yet?" His smile is sneering as his other hand presses down on Stiles' throat.

His vision blurs.

Fuck, he thinks, I'm going to die.

"No one's gonna save you know," the demon mocks, "You know you're not really part of the pack - don't you?"

Any breath he might have had left rushes out of him. The world blurs until all he can see is the yellow eyes leering at him.

"Oh," the demon's grin is bloodthirsty, "You didn't you think that you were one of them? Did you?"

"I am." he doesn't know how he manages to say it, because that is definitely blood on his tongue and down his throat, "I am."

"So where are there?" the demon's fingers clamp down tighter and he leans down, "Where are you precious pack now?"

"Right here!" and it's Scott's voice, Stiles thinks with relief. It's Scott and the others and he still can't fucking breath.

"Hey!" someone calls and above him the sky blurs, blue and grey and yellow lightning and yellow eyes and if this is what dying feels like it sucks. It feels like he is fucking high.

"Hey Belial!" It sounds a bit like Sam Winchester, Stiles considers as the iron grip on his throat vanishes, the weight on his chest lightening.

He fights for a few moments to maintain his swimming vision, but it’s too warm, too hot and he can't breathe. He sucks in dry air, jaw aching and finally even his vision blurs, fading to black. He tries to hold on but it’s no use.

He passes out.


	36. A Million Little Pieces We've Broken Into

"Hey!" Sam Winchester is insane as he runs towards a demon with nothing but a shotgun. Scott wonders stupidly if he's suicidal. "Hey Belial!" He shouts out, taking aim. The demon raises his head but it's too late for the shotgun blasts him, knocking him sideways off Stiles' limp body. There is white powder in the air and it tastes like salt, bitter and tangy on Scott's tongue.

The werewolf skids to a halt, and for one terrifying moment he thinks he's too late. He's too late and Stiles is dead, Lydia and Jethro are slumped unconscious in the trees and Stiles is dead.

They're all here now, the three hunters to the south and the wolves lining up, Nate and Isaac darting over to check the two unconscious supernatural people. The brothers have guns out, while Allison has pulled out a compound bow and has an arrow loaded.

"Winchester." Belial snarls, climbing to his feet, gaze now solely fixed on Sam. "I thought you were dead."

"You wouldn't be the first to think that and you won't be the last." Sam laughs triumphantly. He jogs backwards and Isaac joins him, providing entertainment and excitement for the demon. Taunts fly between them but Scott ignores them.

The bait works. Belial stands to give chase. Scott leaps towards the limp form of his best friend.

Please don't be dead, he prays.

Stiles head lolls limply to one side, his eyes closed. There is a red mark around his throat, and Scott stupidly thinks that's two members of his pack that have been choked to near death now. A line of gaping red runs up the left side of his face, blood trickling out from the corner of his mouth.

"Stiles!" he shouts. Allison drops down beside him, her hand clutching Stiles' wrist. There is a knife stuck in Stiles' shoulder, and Scott presses down on the wound, the plaid shirt wet under his hands. He doesn't lift the pressure to see how much blood there is already.

"He's alive," she says, and Scott relaxes. He should have been checking for a pulse, but this is Stiles, his best friend, his pack mate, and all he can see is the pale still body. All he can feel is the faint trail of black that he can take away. He acknowledges the faint echo of the pain as he takes it away, but there is frighteningly little. Stiles isn't conscious, and so the pain is distant.

It scares him, and he presses down harder.

There is the sound of a gun going off and a metallic zip of a blade.

"You can't save him you know!" Belial sneers, "Little human is as good as dead!" he laughs again and there is a crash like gunfire, but it's not - it's just the rumble of dark clouds overhead. "It's raining," the yellow-eyed demon takes a step backwards, obviously retreating. "It's pouring, I'm laughing, I'm crying, little human is dying."

"You son of a--" Dean lunges but when he gets there the demon is gone. He drops a silver blade in frustration and turns back to where Scott and Allison crouch over their best friend.

"Get Deaton," Scott says, "Or call my mom."

"There's no point," Nate stands with Lydia awake but dazed, leaning on the blonde. Both girls stand at about the same height, Scott hadn't noticed before. "None of the adults are acting right. They won't answer."

"He needs a hospital." Sam says, gaze scanning the area.

"That's not safe!" Lexi protests, some deep seated fear of hospitals erupting from her.

Nate scolds her, "Don't be stupid, Lexi. He can get treatment there!"

"You don't understand!" Lexi shakes her head, "That place isn't right!"

Isaac snorts, trotting over, "What _is_ right?" he asks.

"Come on," Dean crouches next to Scott, "He looks battered but he'll live."

"His one arm is broken," Allison gives an assessment, "His throat and face are bruised, and there are broken rips and his mouth--" she stops, and Scott cans see why. Even unconscious Stiles looks like he is half smiling from the bleeding knife wound tearing open his mouth and curling around, a joker-esque smirk on half his face.

If Scott was Batman then Stiles was his Robin. Not his Joker.

"No," Scott shakes his head, afraid to take his eyes off his friend, "No, we can treat him," he insists. Allison leans over, dabbing with a rag at his bruised already swelling face.

"This? We need to get him to a hospital!" Dean is already leaning forwards, as if to scoop Stiles' broken body into his arms.

"Everybody is sick! He's not going to get treatment!" Scott protests.

"We'll find a bastard crazy enough about his job to fix him." Dean says, "He needs his ribs bound before one of them goes straight through his lungs. And that cut on his face needs to be stitched before someone tears half his face off."

"Scott, there is nothing I can do," Allison leans back, hands bloody. She's not Melissa, and Scott's ache for his mother grows stronger. "We have to let Dean take him to a hospital."

He's torn. He doesn't want to let his best friend out of his sight. "I'll come with you." he says, leaning back as the hunter shifts Stiles’ frail body into his arms. He wants to grab hold and carry his friend instead but Dean is bigger and can manage more easily without jostling Stiles' wounds. He hovers uncertainly.

"No," Sam shakes his head, "You're coming with me and we're doing research. Allison is going home to collect weapons from her dad." Allison leans back, nodding shakily.

“If you want--” Dean adds, seeing his forlorn expression, “--Sam can drop us off, that way you know he’s at the hospital and safe.” Scott nods, liking the compromise.

"I'm going," Lexi insists, pushing forwards, "I'll go with you."

"I thought you didn't like hospitals," Nate rolls her eyes. "Come back with Scott and me to the loft and help us figure out how to get rid of the demons.

Lexi just presses her lips together, shaking her head. Her older sister looks away, seemingly unwilling to argue or to force her will upon the only wolf in her pack.

"Hop in then," Dean motions with his head as he heads towards the car, parked some way off on the edge of the road, "And find a blanket - I'm not having the Sheriff's kid bleed to death on my car and then have my baby impounded for evidence."

***

"Dad!" Allison calls when she gets home, the door slamming slightly to their apartment. She pokes her head into his room. The curtains are drawn and the bed sheet is rumpled. "Dad?"

She steps out, and turns around almost walking right into him. "What is it?"

"Oh thank - Stiles has been injured. He's at the hospital right now. We need to--" she trails off, because his pale gaze is distant. "Dad?" she asks, getting the distinct feeling that he's not listening to her.

"Where have you been?" he asks her.

"In the woods," she says weakly, "With Sam and Dean. I was showing them the Nemeton and then we were going to set up a target and--"

"Were you?" her father interrupts brusquely, "You were just going to hang around with strange hunters when they roll up into town?" he steps forwards and she finds herself stepping backwards, eyes wide.

She calms herself, steeling her resolve, "You've met them. They're good people. Anyway the pack was there too--"

"Ah yes," Chris doesn't let her finish anything she says, "The _pack_."

He grabs one of her arms and turns down the hall, dragging her after him. "What the hell?" she yanks her arm out of his grip. He spins around.

"You and I need to have a little talk about respecting my authority," he snaps, grabbing her other arm and sidestepping behind her so that she can't back away. His grip is cruel, strong enough to bruise as he pushes her forwards into the study. Her breath comes out in a startled gasping sort of sob. "We're hunters; we don't hang around with werewolves and banshees."

"We're retired," Allison bites out. "And what about the Winchesters? They're hunters too."

"They're dangerous!" Chris lets her arm go free and she spins, flailing slightly for balance as she spins towards him, "They're liars and people around them get hurt. You don't want to know the stories I've heard about them…"

"So they told you their name was Wesson and Smith," she shrugs, "Big deal. I don't care about that, I care about now, and right now they're helping us."

Her father moves so quickly she doesn't see the blow coming but suddenly she is sprawled on the ground, head spinning. "Don't talk like that to me!" he snaps. "I'm your father, your family!"

He's insecure, Allison knows this. She knows this is his biggest weakness, his worry for her. After Kate and Victoria and Gerard, she is the only member of his family he has left, and he worries all the more about her supernatural activities because of it. But this…

"Sto-op," she hates how her voice chokes in her throat as she shoves herself up, "Dad…" she pushes herself up and he grabs onto her jacket collar, pulling her up.

He stabs one finger violently at her, "I'm the only person you can trust," he says, "The only one." he says. Nothing he says makes sense; it's all twisted and sick. Allison wants to fight back, to do what she's been taught but this--

This is her dad. He's human. She's been trained to kill monsters and now--

He drops her and her head cracks against the desk as he sinks a fist into her stomach, "You feel that? That's what it's going to feel like when I stab your precious pack members one. By. One." He's crouched over her and Allison's been trained to kill monsters, and she can't really tell the difference anymore.

"Don't," she gasps out, shaking her head, "Dad don't let this get to you, please don't--"

"I _trained_ you--" he bites out, "To be _stronger_ than this. Aren't you stronger than this, Allison?" and she feels the blow of his fist against her ribs, jarring her. His gaze is hardened, and he doesn't look like he's going to stop any time soon. Allison should knock him out or something, but this is her father. She can't. She can't bring herself to do anything but sit there and take it.

"I want you to stay away from them," her dad hisses, "Away from Scott. From Lydia. From the hunters. From Isaac--"

Someone clears their throat, "Yeah, like that is going to happen. I am really glad that both my parents are dead right at this moment." Her dad half rises out of his crouch but a fist crashes with werewolf strength into his temple and he drops like a stone. Isaac kicks him gently with a toe of his boot, his blue eyes finding hers and holding all the warmth and security that her dad's hadn't.

"Isaac?" she asks, and it's only now that she realises she's half curled up by the desk, bruised and her face wet.

It takes her a moment more to realise that she's crying.

"Holy--" Isaac is looking at her with wide eyes, dropping down beside her. "Allison, are you okay?"

"Don't--" she half sobs, pushing him away, "You can't… I don't want you to see me like this."

"Like what?" Isaac glances at her father, checking he's out of it, but still breathing, "Like your dad's completely out of his mind right now and you didn't do anything to stop it?" he pauses and takes a deep breath, "I never did anything," he tells out, "The abuse with my dad - it went on for years. Sometimes--" he shrugs, "Sometimes we can't strike out against our own blood."

"It's bad," Allison shakes her head, feeling the tears drying on her face, "It makes me weak."

Isaac's mouth opens and he pulls her closer, and she collapses into his arms with a shuddering sob.

"It's okay to be weak sometimes."

***

"What happened to him?" the doctor is Japanese, with narrow eyes although that might just be because of the light as he squints over his patient.

For a moment both Dean and Lexi are floored by the question, but thankfully both are skilled at lying.

"He got mugged," Lexi blurts out, "We were out in town - took a dodgy turn and this guy showed up and started beating him up, and he had a knife and it all happened so fast--" she vaguely thinks that she reads too much, that she's way too good at this lying spiel, but then again she has just witnessed a hunter (and she's surprised that Nate let her go off with a hunter alone) hand over fake ID to the receptionist.

Dean nods, backing up her story. They both try to ignore the disarray about the hospital. They're just lucky they managed to find this guy - Osmodai - who seems still obsessed enough about his job to help them.

"If you can give me some time alone, Mr Winchester?" Dr Osmodai asks with a smile, glancing to where Stiles lies pale and sickly looking on the hospital bed.

Dean nods, and wraps one arm around Lexi's shoulders, "We'll wait outside," he says, guiding her out.

She lets him, looking at Stiles on the bed once more before the door closes. It reminds her of Jethro, except Stiles is human. He can't heal himself like the wolves or her friend.

"Hey," Dean nudges her, and she looks at him confused. He gestures to her eyes, "You're flashing," he warns her, looking a bit uneasy but he doesn't pull out a gun or anything.

She swallows down her fears, "Thanks." she says, "I don't like hospitals." she lets out a weak laugh, "Last time I was here was when Jethro was ill."

"Of course," Dean presses his lips together, "Werewolves don't get ill."

She shakes her head, "And I had that stupid nightmare," she lets out a weak laugh. "One of the doctors had eyes that rolled back into his head and was doing some evil scientist operation. I think I watch too many movies."

"Evil scientist operation?" Dean turns to her, frowning, "Which doctor?" Lexi wonders why he picks up on that detail to be concerned about and not the unconsented patient experimentation.

She blinks, trying to remember. She shrugs, "Not sure. It was dark. He… the Japanese one?" she thinks, frowning. "He had his hand over someone's mouth but then he was gone." She shakes her head, "It was just a dream."

Dean is staring at her, looking at her with wide eyes and Lexi can smell the faint wave of adrenaline and fear on him, "You said his eyes were rolled back in his head," he says, heart racing, "So all you could see were the whites. Like he had white eyes?"

She nods, slowly, hesitantly, "Nate said it was just a dream."

Dean leans over, hands gripping his wrists, "Did he have white eyes?" he asks, voice low and dangerous.

Almost in reply the lights above him flicker.

***

They enter the loft after dropping off Stiles, Dean and Lexi at the hospital and make straight for the books. Nate, Jethro and Lydia are already there, somehow managing to get Stiles’ jeep back down from the preserve.

Scott goes for the ones with the books with the dog-eared pages, the ones they've already looked through. Sam gets waylaid, staring with a funny expression at some sheets of paper.

"What are these?" he asks, picking one up to show to Scott. He sits down, and shifts uncomfortably, before reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out what looks like a chunk of wood.

“What is that?” Jethro asks, enraptured. He reaches out but Sam bats his hand away.

“Leave it. It’s a holy lance. We’re keeping it safe.” He peers at the stick, at what Scott realises are symbols scrawled in the wood. “I thought it might be the same,” he says, leaning back with a sigh. He picks up the sheaf again and asks again, “What are these from? Because I swear I recognise them from somewhere and if it’s not the lance… maybe the grail… but I don’t know.”

"Those?" Scott blinks, looking at the hand-outs that Stiles had printed out, filled with archaic symbols. "We - uh - we told you that the sacrifice to the Nemeton we did made us immune. It also sort of backlashed onto us and we started seeing ghosts and symbols everywhere. I was hearing voices, Stiles was hallucinating, Allison was seeing her dead family members…"

"And now?" Sam frowns down.

Scott shrugs, "It comes and goes," he says, "We've been fine for a while. The salt trick managed to ward away the ghosts."

"Why?" Nate looks over next to where she and Lydia are making some sort of death list, "Is it important?" Jethro has vanished to find where he had left the ‘Derek Hale Diaries’ to see if there was anything in them about demons and sins.

Sam drops the paper back on the table; "It just - looked familiar." he seems distant, lost in thought. "So what have you got?" he asks, looking towards the two girls.

Nate shrugs; chewing on the end of a pencil she's either found or stolen from somewhere. Scott thinks he recognises it as his actually… "We've got eight deaths," she says, "There's no link to the timing or manner of death. Some might even be accidents."

"I don't think it's the deaths or the numbers that matter." Sam reaches out for a spare piece of paper, "But the sin they're connected to. That was Stiles' theory. Each demon is connected to a sin and the sins are connected to the death. We know some of the demons and the sin - like Naamah is envy, Dantalion greed, Belial pride..."

Lydia hums. "But the deaths - it's what? Charity, sloth, pride, envy, sloth again, envy, wrath, lust…"

"Charity is the opposite of gluttony."

"And the first drowning?"

"She was found lying face down. That's greed."

"But you said greed was Dantalion. She only rose recently though. That kid died ages ago."

"So maybe it's not linked. Or maybe they're all linked to the wrong ones. "

"Stuff never works out the way it should. Maybe the sins that actually happened aren't the demons that rose. So even if Belial rose representing pride, it was the people who suffered from sloth who died."

Sam sighs, rubbing his head tiredly, "This just got a whole load confusing."

"It doesn't matter," Lydia shrugs, "It doesn't matter which demon is which sin or who died because of it. Because at the end of the day I still count seven sins."

"What?" Sam frowns, sitting upright slightly. He looks down at their scrawled notes, "No."

"Seven," Scott breaths, "That means… it means all seven have risen. They're already out. They're already here."

"Stiles," Lydia snaps, her priorities obviously straight, "Is he okay? The demon could get him at the hospital."

"Dean is with him," Sam shrugs, "And Scott's mom. Somewhere at least..."

Scott blinks, shaking his head, "He'll be fine. Lexi called Nate. The same doctor who looked after Jethro - Doctor Osmodai - is seeing to him."

Sam freezes. "Osmodai?" he asks, frowning.

Scott nods, "He works with my mom. Paul Osmodai. Weird name huh? He's Japanese."

"Osmodai…" Sam repeats, frowning. "That sounds familiar… Osmodai…" Then his eyes widen. "Crap. Crap--" he lunges across the table. Nate raises her hands as a book she is leaning on it yanked out from under her, Sam flicking until he finds the right page. "There," he jabs a finger at an entry. Scott leans forwards to see it and his blood runs cold. "There," Sam repeats, looking at the three of them,

"Asmodeus. Demon. Fallen angel. Also known as Osmodai. That guy isn't a doctor..." For a moment he leans back triumphant and Scott lets that link sink in.

Sam and Scott almost fall over the chair as they begin a mad scramble to get to the car. Both however are behind Lydia who is already half-way out of the door.

The lance is left forgotten on the table.


	37. Still So Far Away From Sane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: If people felt uncomfortable watching Teen Wolf s03e20 Echo House, then you might not like the start of this chapter. Skip to the POV change.

Stiles wakes to hospital lights. He knows this instantly from too many nights curled up on uncomfortable chairs, too many nights spent worrying and contorting his body into weird positions in fruitless attempts to chase down sleep.

He spends too much time in a hospital, he thinks vaguely. First for his mother and her dementia, occasionally for his father when he comes back from work, bruised and battered and shot up once, sometimes he stops in with Scott to see Melissa, and now more and more frequently his pack keep getting injuries that warrant hospital attention.

But it isn't his pack in here this time. It's him.

A shape blurs above him and he blinks.

"Are you awake?" a deep, slightly accented voice asks, and appears in his field of vision. "Does it hurt?"

Stiles frowns, trying to focus on the blurry shape of the doctor. "Uh--" he coughs, throat dry. The doctor makes no move to offer him a glass of water or anything, so Stiles swallows down what little saliva he can muster. "Yes?" he asks, frowning. He's at a hospital, and he doesn't think it's meant to hurt. It's not even been reduced to a dull ache, it still feels like there is a red hot poker shoved in his shoulder, and his cheek still smarts. That at least has dulled slightly, but Stiles thinks that might be because a werewolf has already got to him, a walking morphine dispenser.

"That's good." the doctor smiles, "My name is Dr Osmodai, and I'm going to see to that nasty cut across your face and stitch it up."

"Don't you normally use anaesthetic?" Stiles frowns, reaching up self-consciously to touch the wound. His one arm gives a twinge of pain, and he’s pretty sure it’s broken. He attempts using his right arm, but his hand stops short by something enclosed about his wrist. "Wah--" he tugs again, head lifting just enough to see that the cuffs on the bed are done up around his wrists and ankles. "What are you doin--?"

The doctor shoves him back down, hand pressed firmly against Stiles' wounded right shoulder so that the teenager goes limp on the bed. He offers up a small grin, "It's okay - I believe in the value of pain. It's one of the best medicines, so I'm going to stitch up that wound now." Something silver flashes in his hands.

It's a needle, and Stiles feels his pulse rate spark erratically, panicking. He can feel his breathing growing laboured, but the doctor doesn't appear to notice, or care. He simply plucks at the pair of surgical gloves he has on and brings the wickedly curved suture needle towards Stiles' face.

"No no no--" Stiles protest, "No, don't--" the doctor lifts up the one hand from Stiles shoulder to shush him, a finger to his mouth and Stiles finds that there is something constricting his breathing. He can't talk, can barely suck in enough air. His head spins dizzily. He wheezes out, and Osmodai smiles in satisfaction.

It doesn't hurt at first. Stiles is actually too busy concentrating on breathing to notice the first twist and pull of the needle. He notices more when he tries to move his head away and it tugs painfully at his cheek.

He clenches his eyes closed; half convinced that this is some sort of waking nightmare. Something in his head laughs, the brush of bandages, flash of dark eyes and silver teeth snarling. Stiles whimpers in his throat, helpless and trapped.

The guy isn't a doctor.

Or he is and Stiles is just out of his mind with everything that's going on. Either way he’s been left here alone with this guy. He feels betrayed. Lost. Where is Scott?

"There," the doctor pats him on the other cheek, "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Stiles opens his eyes, and he realises there are tears in them. He opens his mouth, and can feel the stitches tug at the corners. "What school did you get your doctors degree, dude?" Stiles chokes out, because if he doesn't he's going to have a panic attack, right here and now, hysterical images flashing through his head, "Because I've got to say, when they told you that you passed - they lied."

It's a bad line, but Stiles can be forgiven for it, given the circumstances.

The doctor sighs, leaning back slightly so that Stiles has to squint from the light. It flickers overhead. "Here I try and do something helpful and you just don't shut up." He reaches forwards, and Stiles tries to pull away from the hand, but he's still strapped down like some sort of mental patient, "Maybe I should just keep stitching," Osmodai muses, "Close up that pretty mouth for good." He grins, white teeth flashing, and matching the colour of his eyes as they roll back in his head. "Then nobody can hear you scream when I kill you." he adds, as Stiles’ stomach rolls.

"That's - that's so cliché," Stiles blabbers, because he's a demon magnet - this is the second demon today that he's met, and both are out to kill him. "That 'nobody will hear you scream?' I even had Peter Hale try it with me. Peter. _Hale_."

The demon - Osmodai - clicks his tongue against his teeth, sitting back in his chair. "Well since Belial obviously didn't manage it: that means it's up to me to--"

"If you say 'finish it yourself' so help me god--"

Osmodai laughs, "God? God's not gonna help you now. And you know what; I think it might for the best if we don't stop at stitching up those pretty lips. Why don't we just cut the tongue out altogether?"

He stands and Stiles feels his heart, beating wildly. His brain is blank, numb, out of ideas, clever plans and sarcastic, witty retorts dying on his tongue.

This is how he is going to die.

White-eyes like bone gleam down at him.

***

"Phone Allison," Scott is shouting at Nate as they crash down the loft stairs towards the car, "Tell her and Isaac to get to the hospital ASAP."

Sam has his own phone ringing, but there is no answer from his brother. "There probably isn't a signal. Or he's done something stupid like turn it off in the hospital." he is frustrated, on edge.

Nate steps up, "Allison's on her way. She's across town already and will get there quicker than we will. What about us?" she looks around, Jethro crashing out behind her.

"Are we all going? What if this is a distraction?" he blurts out.

Sam tries Dean's number again and curses when there is no reply.

"My mom--" Scott is fumbling through the car keys. There are two cars parked outside, the Impala and Stiles' jeep.

Lydia grabs the keys to the Impala with graceful elegance, "I'm going," she says, "To get Stiles out of there. You three--" she points at the wolves and coatl, "You stay here. Guard the fort. You." She points at Sam, "With me, Winchester."

Sam snatches the keys from her and she lets him. He rolls down the window as Lydia slips into the shotgun seat. "Jethro, keep an ear out for anything." he says, relying on their early warning system, "Anything at all - got it?"

The three look a bit lost but nod as the engine roars to life.

"And Sam?" Lydia adds quietly, and he glances at her even while sticking the car into reverse.

"Yeah?"

"Drive quickly."

***

The door crashes open.

"Hey!"

Stiles thinks the Winchester's are doing a good job at this saving people spiel, with perfect timing. The door's hinges burst out as Dean throws himself onto it shoulder first, but it's surprisingly Lexi who slips though towards them, her eyes flashing yellow and fangs bared.

Osmodai spins around and for a moment the hunter freezes at the sight of white-eyes. Lexi on the other hand is full of pent-up rage and werewolfness (which is totally a word) she's like a small reckless canon ball that throws herself on the demon.

The pair crash to one side, and for a five foot two blonde girl, Lexi has obviously been learning some mean skills from her older sister, because she's like a cute puppy gone raging fur ball. She knocks the demon to the floor, pinning him down and scoring lines across his face. With a snarl Osmodai shoves backwards and she rolls off him.

Stiles tries to move to help, yanking to no avail at his restraints. Spotting the issue, Dean reaches him in three long strides. "You and your girlfriend are making a habit of this, kid." Dean mutters, teeth gritted as he unbuckles the restraints. He goes for the right one first and then for the legs, leaving Stiles to fumble with the left one on his own, his left arm lying uselessly, dark purple bruising visible under the skin. "You okay to walk?" he asks.

Stiles nods; throat tight and still dry, "I think so," he says, weakly.

The hunter is staring at him with sympathy in his eyes, but then he tears his gaze away and draws out a gun. Lexi and the demon are both on their feet on the other side of the bed. Stiles scrambles out of bed, and thankfully he's still in his clothes and not wearing one of those stupid hospital gowns. He has no shoes, and when he stands his legs feel like jelly. He clutches the bed for support, his left arm pressed to his body for protection, shoulder throbbing.

"Osmodai?" Dean spits out, motioning Lexi towards the door, "Osmodai?" he says again, frowning, "What sort of kind of name is that _Asmodeus_?" he challenges, glaring.

The demon shrugs, "So you worked me out," he sighs, "Well done. What do you want? A prize?"

A wolfed-out Lexi snarls at him.

He sneers, "It's unhygienic," he sniffs, "Having you creatures in a hospital."

Dean sighs sidestepping towards the door, "You know what's unhygienic?" he commiserates, "All the angels I had to kill to get these?" he tilts the gun so that it catches the light and then swings it around to shoot three shots into the demon.

The doctor drops with a gasp of pain and eyes that slide back to brown, knowing and dangerous. The wounds hiss slightly, and there is the glimpse of black smoke that makes Stiles want to choke before Dean has shoved both him and Lexi out of the room.

"Go!" he shouts.

"What did you shoot him with?" Lexi asks, running ahead. Stiles tries but stumbles, and somehow ends up leaning on the hunter for support.

"We melted down an angel blade. It won't kill him, but it will slow him down while he has to dig out the bullets."

There are few doctors around, most probably out of their minds with the hell leakage. They are one corridor and a half away when the lights flicker ominously.

"Which way?" Dean asks, looking around for signs.

"Are you seriously asking me?" Stiles gasps out, "I'm in pain, just had a freaking demon attempt to sew up my mouth and rip out my tongue and you're expecting me to know my way around a hospital?" He wants to glare at Dean, "Left," he snaps, directing them down the next corridor.

"Can't we just head for the front entrance?" Lexi stumbles back a few steps towards them, looking around wildly.

"And have everyone here know where we took him?" Dean spits out, "We need a back door - a parking garage--"

"Here!" Lexi darts to one side and Dean reflexively follows. Stiles hisses as he is dragged along. It's awkward - Dean is too tall to lean on comfortably - Scott makes a much better crutch, but at least it isn't Sam here.

"The morgue?" Stiles hisses as he spots the chambers in the wall, "Seriously?" He lets go of Dean's shoulder to stagger, trying to find his balance. He feels weak, has probably lost a lot of blood. "We have a whole load of various rooms - most of which admittedly have patients in them or dangerous activities such as x-ray machines - but you had to choose the depressing one? And there's even a dead body on the table to lighten the mood - great.”

"There's a what?" Lexi squeaks, and glances at the sheet over the metal table.

“You’re injured but your mouth never stops, does it? Do you get paid for every extra word you stuff into a single breath?” Dean hisses, as Stiles slumps to the floor, exhausted.

“Nah. It’s just…” Stiles' eyelashes flutter slightly and Lexi drops down beside him, adamantly refusing to look at the dead body. “This is a TV show. And I don’t get enough screen time, man. So I monologue whenever possible.”

Dean rolls his eyes, "Just say down," he cautions, and stays standing by the door, a silent sentinel.

Footsteps can be heard and Stiles freezes.

Because this is it.

Their luck has finally run out.

***

The door swings open and Dean almost shoots the nurse in the face. She startles, wide-eyed. "Holy--" she freezes, gaze sweeping over the three of them, and then back to Dean, probably focussed on the gun in his hand. Then he gaze slides back to-- "Stiles?" she asks, "What happened to you?" there is disbelief and sympathy in her tone as she takes in his bruised throat and neatly stitched Glasgow smile along one cheek.

"Uh-a demon?" he asks, as if he's not actually sure.

"A demon." the nurse repeats, and Dean suddenly manages to place her.

"You're Scott's mother," he remembers seeing her leaving the house.

She glances at him and then back to Stiles, "Yes…" she says cautiously, "Which is unfortunate, because it's not every day you find out your son is a werewolf."

Stiles shoves himself up slightly and then sinks back down because - fuck - his arm is still broken. "Yeah, well, that's great, but Mrs McCall, can you please, please do us a favour, and go out there and when that guy turns up--"

"The Japanese doctor. Dr Osmodai," Lexi blurts out, "Just distract him. Send him off somewhere. Please."

"Why?" Melissa looks confused, "What do you have against him? You're not being racist, are you?" she hisses, "Stiles!"

The teenager looks at her with wide amber eyes.

"Please," Dean adds in, "Just distract that guy and then go home. Stay home too. Scott wants you to be safe."

She rolls her eyes, batting at the air with the clipboard in her hand, "Oh, of course he does," she sighs, "Fine." she agrees reluctantly.

"Great," Dean flashes her a smile and opens the door, shoving her out. She seems dazzled, so hopefully he still has it, and he'll ponder over the implications of flirting with a werewolf's mother at a later date.

The wounded teenager sighs, slumping a little further down the wall. He's looking bad, but at least he's not bleeding out on them anymore. The werewolf looks at him with wide-eyes, human and scared.

"Just stay quiet," Dean warns.

"No shit," Stiles eyes are closed but his lips still move, voice hoarse as it is from the bruises, "We were hoping to have a party."

"My phone doesn't work," Lexi says, and Dean checks his own. She's right, they don't work.

"We get to the car and get out of here."

"How? Sam dropped us off."

Dean motions for the pair to be silent, hearing voices outside. Melissa's shadow is there, and is he squints through the barred glass he can make out her figure, chatting to the demon right outside the room. She obviously caught him just before he entered.

"Ah, Dr Osmodai," she greets the demon with a pleasant tone, "I need you to check out Mrs Harrington. She's been complaining of a twinge in her left knee, and I'm worried something went wrong with the surgery."

Stiles is biting through his lip, and Lexi lets out a little whimper.

The shadow by the door tilts his head, "Of course," he says pleasantly, "I'll see right too it." All traces of the cold and creepy demon are hidden beneath a fake persona.

"Great," the nurse can vaguely be seen, clutching folders to her chest, "Right, well…" she pauses, waiting for the doctor to leave.

"Of course," Asmodeus says again, and there is frustration in his voice. "Thanks Melissa," he turns away, grin fading with every step he takes away from the morgue.

By the time he gets back there, Dean and the other two will be long gone.

But it's okay.

He's not alone.

***

"Drive," Lydia emphasises for the sixth time in a minute.

"I'm driving," Sam snaps at her, "I can't go any faster."

Sam thinks he’s just about broken nine hundred traffic laws already tonight, but every cop in Beacon Hills seems to be off duty tonight (Lydia doesn’t honestly appear to be surprised).

"Well try," she says, condescending. Her lips are pursed and her face is drawn with worry. She grabs for the door as Sam spins around a corner too fast, drifting into the next lane, ignoring the horn that blares at him. "Next left," she says sharply.

"I can follow directions," Sam mutters under his breath. Regardless he does so, and the Impala lurches slightly as he travels over a rough patch of road. "What happened to school anyway?" he asks her, trying to distract her. "You missed this whole last week."

"You'd know," she said airily, "Since you were stalking out our loft the past two weeks."

"And the various crimes scenes," Sam adds, "And we had some business to take care of with Gadreel."

"What the hell is a Gadreel?" she asks, and Sam doesn't answer, jaw clenched as the Impala continues hurtling down the road. It's darkening out, the sun setting. That just makes everything more dangerous.

It's also harder to see the shadow that steps out in front of the road. Lydia spots it first, an arm reflexively lashing out to grab Sam's shoulder and he brakes, the car screeching to a halt.

The headlights are on, but with the setting sun behind the figure it's hard to make out details.

At least until the point that he side-steps, silhouette blurring until Sam and Lydia can finally make out that the red in his eyes is not a reflection from the sun.

***

"Go, go…" Dean shovels Lexi and Stiles towards the door to the A&E. He can see open air and a car park beyond, and parked just in front of an ambulance is a dark black Masda.

"That's Allison," Stiles sinks down slightly with relief. Dean doesn't think the kid can take much more of this, but they've finally got their home straight. He makes a beeline towards the foyer for the double doors, glass that slide open. Lexi stumbles along just in front, and when she stops Dean and Stiles almost walk straight into her.

"What is it?" Dean asks, peering around. The blonde teenager's eyes are flashing gold, and that should have been his first warning.

Then Stiles slides off his shoulder, and flails a little, somehow managing to cling to the vending machine to one side. "I don't see anybody. Can we go? Going sounds like a good idea."

"It's her," Lexi whispers, and her voice sounds so full of shock and trauma that it hits Dean like a punch in the gut.

At the desk a woman smiles and turns their way. Her hair is straight and dark brown, falling over the shoulders of her leather jacket like she's some sort of model as her eyes light on them and she starts towards them.

She's between them and the door.

Dean isn't seeing the problem here, but Lexi's gaze is pinned to the woman. A man steps out from behind her, mid-twenties with ruffled brown hair. The guy pauses when he sees them, standing in the corridor, and for some reason his eyes sit on the beta werewolf.

His eyes flare blue.

"Cra-ap," Stiles whines, "Crap."

He's not looking at the werewolf. His gaze is focussed on the woman striding towards them; lips smirking as her own eyes blink, flaring dark with shadows.

They are pitch black.

***

The phone rings and Sam, mid-way between reversing and calculating routes in his head actually manages to answer it, in case Dean managed to get a signal or the young Argent had managed to get them already.

"A little busy right now," Sam shouts into the phone as he frantically attempts to reverse.

"NO!" a British accent shouts, worry and fright in his voice, "Don't! Don't Sam - don't hang up!"

Sam curses as the demon in the road tilts his head to one side and takes a step towards the car. The youngest Winchester drops the phone into Lydia's lap, his foot slamming down on the accelerator. The engine roars to life, and for a moment they're about to move, to actually make a successful get-away when it splutters and goes silence.

She picks up the phone, "You have really bad timing," Lydia's voice is ice, tense and nervous and she glances at Sam. The beast of a car sits, sprawled across the road as Bael steps forwards, one hand out as if marshalling traffic.

"I know! I know! But so do these guys! I mean--" his voice trails off, and it sounds like he's pacing from the harsh breathing through the speaker.

"Jethro?" Sam frowns, sparing a glance from the road to look at the phone, "What is it? What's wrong?"

"There…" Jethro pauses, taking a deep breath, "There's someone here."


	38. Poison Devils

"What do we do?" Allison parks the car outside the hospital and sits there. "What - do we go in?"

Isaac doesn’t think he’s ever seen Allison so unsure before. "I can try to scent them out," he suggests, peering past her through the window.

"I don't think they'd go out the front door though," Allison muses, "Too obvious…" making a decision, she starts the car up and begins coasting around to the back. She looks confident and relaxed, very different to only an hour earlier.

There is still a bruise on her cheek, and she hasn't even attempted to cover it up. Instead she holds her head high with a newly lit spark in her eye.

"There," Isaac spots something all of a sudden and Allison brakes sharply. "I can see them." He points out where through the glass of the A&E entrance the three can be seen. Stiles is leaning heavily on Dean Winchester's shoulder, while Lexi stalks ahead, looking about.

"Oh thank god," Allison leans against the wheel, "They're safe."

"Uh - are they?" Isaac asks, as the three freeze, staring at something. A figure spins away from reception and begins walking straight towards them, following by a lanky shadow. The guy following looks uneasy, glancing around.

It's enough for Isaac to see the blue eyes. Allison must see them too for her door is open.

"Come on," she says. Isaac is already falling out of the car as she grabs her crossbow.

"We can't just storm a hospital!" he hisses at her, glancing over his shoulder.

"Oh yeah?" she asks, crossbow pointed to the sky as she looks across the car at him. She looks dangerous, bruised cheek, cut lip and her eyes are dark. Isaac is vividly reminded of the hunter that stabbed him twenty times in the chest. She quirks her lips at him, full of determination.

She's not weak. Isaac doesn't know why she thinks that she is. Allison is one of the strongest people he knows. Even now as she tilts her head to one side, hair falling in one eye as she lays it out for him plain and simple.

"Watch me."

***

Lexi is walking backwards and Dean grabs her arm, yanking the girl behind him. She looks scared. Terrified even, Stiles muses.

He probably should be too, but considering he's just had one demon with yellow-eyes beat the shit out of him and then another white-eyed bastard attempt some amateur surgery on him, he thinks he's out of fear for the moment. The demon with black eyes is stalking towards them, gaze locked on them while the werewolf behind her moves forwards uncertainly, like some sort of pet.

"Yeah, I think we should choose a different escape route…" Stiles blurts out, suddenly remembering to move. He uses the vending machine he is half hugging to push himself up, and the whole contraption rocks violently.

For a moment Stiles stares at it, and then throws his full weight at it. He winces, black splodges appearing in his vision and damn - he thinks - he shouldn't have used his injured shoulder.

It dazes him enough that the responsible hunter has to yank him backwards before Stiles succeeds in getting killed by a vending machine.

It rocks over, crashing down loudly. Unlike the last time this happened, people actually look up, and the demon stalking towards them pauses, an obstruction in her path.

"Save the bright ideas for later!" Dean tugs him backwards.

"But I didn't even get my free food," Stiles moans, hopping backwards until he can turn to find his crutch in the hunter's shoulder. It's not as convenient as Scott's shoulder, but at least the Winchester is a solid pillar of support unlike Isaac who would have been nothing more than a lanky scarf wearing pole to cling onto.

"Free food later. Once we get out of this demon infested hospital."

Lexi's breathing is short as she looks over her shoulder, "It's her," she whispers, "It's her."

"The demon that killed your pack?" Stiles asks.

"What?" Dean would probably glare at them if they weren't in the process of making their way along the corridor as fast as they could, "Why don't you tell us these things?"

"It wasn't important!" Lexi protests, "It's just another demon."

"Exactly!" Dean snarls, and with an angry sound he turns violently sideways and crashes through a door. Lexi trails behind, closing the door behind her on reflex, pressing to the wood and almost listening. "I don't think she's coming. Stiles' trick with the vending machine must have slowed them down."

"A storage closet…" Stiles sighs, " _This_ is your grand plan?" he looks about, "I like it," he shrugs, "Nice. Airy. Bigger than they usually are."

"Shut up," Dean snaps, dropping Stiles unceremoniously on the floor and looking at where Lexi stands. "Demon?" he asks.

Lexi shrugs, "Black eyes. Female. She killed my pack back in January."

"Naamah," Dean concludes. "And Asmodeus. Crap." he runs a hand through his hair. "We can try to avoid them both but we only need to run into one and we're done for."

"You can say that," Stiles chokes out, "They want to _kill_ me!"

"Get used to it." Dean says to him, darkly, "After this night their plans for us will be a lot worse than to simply kill us."

***

They sit in the car, the engine dead. Dean is going to kill him for this, Sam thinks, as he attempts to start it.

Whatever Bael has done to it keeps it silent. The damn demon even looks smug, red eyes glinting at them. "Lydia, take this," Sam pulls out an angel blade, "It doesn't kill them but it will hurt them for a bit."

She's still talking on the phone. Sam can hear Jethro's frantic babbling on the other end, "There are people here! Shining people! Like… I can see them glowing! What do we do?"

Sam grabs the phone from Lydia, "Look, we're a little busy right now?" he snaps.

"But the--"

"But we're about to get killed by a demon. We'll talk to you guys later!" and he cancels the call, tossing the cell in the back. "Take it," he shoves the blade at Lydia. "But stay in the car."

"What am I meant to do with this?" she hisses, looking at the sword as it rests loosely in her hands. Sam ignores her, shoving the door open and sliding out. He stands with the door half-open, propping his elbows on the open door and the car roof.

"Can we help you?" he grins disarmingly at the demon.

Bael shrugs. He's red-eyed and unamused by Sam's attempt to distract him. "Yes, I think you can. I need to borrow Lydia for a little bit, if you don't mind." He's almost polite, and that makes it worse.

"Actually, I kind of do mind," Sam grins, "She's free on Sundays and Wednesdays though."

"You think you're funny, don't you?" the demon drawls, stepping forwards. Sam's back straightens, "And what? You think you're actually a threat to me?" Bael sneers, "I fell with Lucifer. Then again you'd know all about that, wouldn't you? After all that time you spent together… I hear you two got quite cosy together down in the cage."

Sam, to his credit, doesn't flinch, and he certainly doesn't think about the cage. "Shame you missed your boss." Sam snarks, "He was out and about a few years ago… I mean it's been an awful long time since you've seen him, huh?"

The demon clicks his teeth together in irritation.

"So what is this?" Sam spreads his arms out, gesturing to the car, "Some kind of reunion party for Lucifer's pals?"

"Something like that," the demon shrugs, vaguely, "And the banshee is invited."

"No, she isn't."

"Oh?" Bael raises one eyebrow, "How are you going to stop me? Are you going to kill me? Because you can't. What do _you_ have, that can _kill_ something like _me_?"

Sam shrugs, and waves something in the air. The demon blinks at it. "Nothing much," Sam agrees, "But I do have this." he looks at the device, "It's an EMF metre. Signals supernatural activity such as demons. And ghosts." he adds with a grin. "And Dean and I… we're currently haunted by our half-brother. And right now I'm sure Adam doesn't mind helping us out."

Bael is frowning, thick brows furrowed before he gets it, and even then the air in front of him is already shimmering.

The shape that solidifies is definitely the form of Sam's half-brother. The EMF metre whines as the kid materialises, and for once Sam gets to watch in joy as the demon is thrown hurtling backwards through the air.

"Adam," he shouts, as the ghost makes as if to step after the demon. "Adam?" he asks again, desperately.

The form flickers and half turns with a weak smile. Sam sinks down a little bit, and he doesn't even know what to say. "Long time no see," the ghost tells him, gaze sad. It's definitely him. It's not a ghoul, it's not Michael…

"I'm so, so sorry." Sam gasps out. "We both are. What happened to you…"

Adam shrugs, "Yeah, it kind of sucks. You did your best. Which also kind of sucked." he looks fed up, and probably regretting multiple life choices at this point. "But still," he grins, "It's been a hell of a ride."

Sam opens his mouth again, still not knowing what to say. Adam's probably completely lost it from spending so much time with Michael and Lucifer. Which also raises the question of how he got out. Sam's been assuming that it's linked to Heaven being closed but with a giant hell mouth below Beacon Hills he wonders if it might be something else. "How did you get out of the cage?" he asks. This is really a bad time for this conversation, as with a snarl Bael levers himself up from the ground.

"Sam!" Lydia cries from the car, "Get in!" she is leant over to the driver's seat, and now she pushes herself backwards, just as the car roars to life.

Sam casts Adam one painful glance. His half-brother winces and makes a shoo-ing motion, "Story for another time," he says, vanishing with a static flicker. Sam slips back inside, the car engine roaring.

"What did you do?" he hisses at Lydia.

She shrugs, "I fixed it."

"But the demon had done something!"

"And?" she asks, dismissively, "I'm a genius. The demon stopped to talk to you. It can't talk to you and block up the engine at the same time. It doesn't have sufficient brain power."

"But--"

"Will you shut up and get out of here!?"

Sam slams his foot on the accelerator.

"Uh oh," Lydia's quiet exclamation has him looking up, even as the car begins to shift backwards suddenly.

"What now?" Sam says, spinning the wheel. Lydia's looking over her shoulder and now her hair spins as she looks around to the front. Sam sees it too, seconds from making a getaway.

"They've got back-up."

***

"They hung up on me!" Jethro looks betrayed by them.

"They sound like they had other issues," Scott speaks to him side-ways, his gaze still focussed on the three people who just barged into the loft. Jethro, Nate and Scott had all been worrying, bent around the table and going over their notes for the fifth time. Jethro had a double dose of worry, not just from himself, but from the wolves whenever he caught a stray thought passing his way. Then, suddenly, there had been a loud crash from the door.

The loft door had slid open with a rattle. Initially Jethro had thought it was the others, back from the hospital, but Scott's slumped shoulders tense and Nate snarls and he knows it’s not.

Jethro looks at them closer, and the three of them all look human at first. The three of them stand with a dark haired, blue eyed man slightly in front. His skin is mildly tanned and beneath it his whole form glows. His two companions are both female, both with varying shades of blonde hair. All three wear suits, and their postures are stiff, uncomfortable almost.

And beneath their human appearance something is burning. It's like fire, but a hundred times brighter. It's warmth and light and Jethro wants to put his hands out to bask in it.

It's like the sun.

"Who are you?" Scott asks them again.

"My name is Kamael," the lead being speaks up. "I mean you no harm. Me and my companions," he gestures, "Ariel, and Remiel… we merely wish to talk."

Scott clears his throat, "I'll change the question. What are you? I can smell you aren't human."

If the werewolves can smell it, that would explain why Jethro can feel it. He just wants to huddle in the warmth of the light (oh god he really is a snake).

"We're angels, dog," one of the blonde woman sneers. She looks about to say something else, scorning them, but the lead man - Kamael - holds out one hand stopping her.

And that's when Jethro sees it. He had first mistaken it for light rays, spreading out from the three people. It's like a lens flare on a camera, but this flare spreads not from the eyes like with the werewolves, but from the three people's shoulders. He squints, and that’s when everything seems to slot into place.

And Jethro can see the wide, spreading wings arching outwards, feathers torn and burnt, bones shattered. The wings hang like skeletal fragments, spread as if to threaten them, but half held back.

"What do you want?" Scott growls.

"You have something that belongs to us." the blonde - Remiel - snaps from where the leader is keeping her back. "The lance."

"The what?" Nate looks disbelieving. "We have nothing of yours. And if you think we'll help you after you barge in here--!"

"We mean you no harm," Kamael emphasises, "But I believe recently you came in possession of a lance. It is of great importance to us."

Jethro knows instantly what the guy means. It's the stick that Sam had had earlier, and it had glowed with a similar kind of power that these people do.

Maybe they really are angels.

"We do?" Scott asks, "We don't… we don't have anything."

"The lance."

Jethro finds himself spinning, because earlier in their panic, it is left where Sam had placed it. It sits beneath several piles of paper and he draws it out, feeling energy tingle beneath his fingertips. He half turns back to where Nate and Scott are frowning at him and the angels are looking at the stick in his hand with reverence.

"This old thing?" he asks, patting his palm with it. "What do you need it for?"

"Give it to us… and we'll kill the demons for you."

"But--" Nate splutters.

"Don't," Scott orders, "I don't trust you." he says to the angels, "We don't know you and we have no reason to believe you."

"We're _angels_." Kamael looks confused, saying this as if it explains everything.

"I don't believe in angels," Nate snarls.

"They feel - they feel good." Jethro argues, "I mean… kind of bright. Kind of like shiny broken glass. But I think… I think they're good."

"We are," Ariel insists, "Please. Give the Lance to us and we can fix everything. We'll kill the demons and bring paradise." she is so earnest, the most genuine out of the three. Jethro can't read the angels, every time he tries it's like trying to stare at a supernova.

"Don't be stupid," Nate snaps at Jethro.

"We will take it by force," Remiel steps forwards and again Kamael shoves her back with a warning glance.

He turns to them, "We respect your decision," he says stiffly and behind him Remiel lets out a barely contained snarl.

Scott looks torn and Jethro seizes his chance, "I say yes." he says.

The alpha frowns, "This isn't a vote!" he snaps, "We should wait until Sam and Dean get back. It's their stick. Lance. Whatever."

"Exactly. Jethro…" Nate is staring at him with worry in her eyes and Jethro only holds the lance tighter. He doesn't want to let go of it. It's like a warm bundle that he cradles close.

He shakes his head, "No. This whole thing… the demons… the monsters… it's gone on long enough Nate." She snarls slightly in warning and her eyes flash but he continues. "We're not doing anything! What have we actually done that's been marginally helpful?"

Scott shakes his head, "Jethro - put that thing down." The angels watch in silence.

"I watched your whole pack get murdered." Jethro begins to list, "People here have died and all we do is find the bodies. The demons run this show and you know it." he steps sideways, towards the angels and Scott and Nate both freeze from where they had been stepping towards him. "Maybe it's time we help someone out who actually stands a fighting chance." He glances between the two werewolves, "You're not trying to stop me. You know I'm right."

"We don't want to hurt you," Scott shakes his head, "We want to make you see sense. Jethro--"

"No," Jethro shakes his head, "I'm doing this. If you want to stop me you have to mean it." and he takes another step towards where the angels watch. He can feel their energy buffering him, waves of warmth and soft feathers.

"Then you're an idiot." Nate snaps. "A fucking idiot - Jeth - you do this and you're out. You get that? You're not in my pack."

Jethro laughs, and spins, holding out the lance, "I was never really in your pack to start with."

***

"So what's the plan now, o’ great hunter?" Stiles snaps at Dean, "Because this? This right here? This sucks."

"Well sor-ry!" Dean mouths, and looks up from the gun he has been examining for what feels like the past hour, but has in reality only been about fifteen minutes.

And they're still in the cupboard.

Lexi is still pressed against the door, and she is giving a running commentary. Her eyes are closed as she attempts to track the movements of the demons around the hospital. "The doctor demon has finished with the patients," she tells them, "He'll be heading here any minute. Melissa is seeing to people the other end of the hospital where… the other demon is stalking around. She's having the wolf with her try to sniff us out but he can't."

Stiles absentmindedly picks up one of the bottles next to him, "Because of the chemicals," he notes, making a note in case he wants to try to hide from a wolf in the future. He thinks this is a cleaning closet of some kind, and for some reason Dean is looking regretfully at the Borax spray.  "I say we go for it," he suggests, "What's the worst that can happen to us?"

"Seriously?" Dean asks, "You're _really_ going to ask that, kid?"

Stiles shrugs, "Anything is better than sitting in here waiting to die," he explains.

"Uh guys?" Lexi says over from the door, "I hate to interrupt your beautiful debate but there are people outside."

"The demons?"

She shakes her head, "No… they're not saying anything though but they've stopped…" she swallows, and leans away from the door slightly, looking at the wood as if it is contagious, "They've stopped right outside."

The hunter stands, and for a moment there is something terrifying about him, and Stiles shivers. Then his gaze softens and he glances at Stiles. He doesn't talk, instead motions with his hands.

Stiles gets what he's saying, and Lexi shifts backwards just in time for Dean to kick the door outwards.

It hits someone's head with a thump and there is a pained 'ow' as said person doubles over.

Lexi drops down to help Stiles up, and the pair stumble out together, freezing as they spot Dean Winchester and Allison Argent with weapons pointed at each other's head. Dean has his Colt while Allison has a crossbow.

"How the hell do you even manage to smuggle that into these places?" Stiles breaks the tension and Dean clears his throat, dropping his gun. Allison lowers her crossbow and Isaac stumbles over from where he was brained by the door.

"You were hiding in a storage closet?" he asks, and his smile is wicked with promise.

"Shut up." Stiles snaps, "Or I will end you. I don't know how, and I'm a bit too traumatised to think of exactly how I will end you, but I will and believe me after what the demons have attempted to do to me today it won't be pretty."

"Are you guys okay?" Allison asks, looking at the three of them.

Lexi nods, "As good as you get being hunted by demons."

"What happened to your face?" Stiles asks, peering at Allison.

She grins, and it's broken and dangerous, "Like you're one to talk?"

Stiles wishes she hadn't said anything, because now she's pointed it out he can feel the stitches tugging at his mouth, can feel the dry encrusted blood and it's hard to breath from the bruises across his chest. "Touché," he says, and he'd grin if it didn't hurt so much, and didn’t need Lexi next to him to stay standing upright.

"Got a plan?" Dean asks Allison, "Because I have jack shit."

"Come on then Alley Cat," Stiles directs towards the huntress. "Show us what you've got."

"I've got nothing," she tells them, and there goes Stiles' faith in Allison Argent, hunter extraordinaire. There goes Stiles' faith in hunters in general since both look cornered and outnumbered. "They're too powerful," she shakes her head.

"We should split up. Since there is two of them now and all." Isaac suggests.

"That's a rubbish plan," Lexi whimpers. "Don't you watch the horror movies?"

Dean hums, "But we can get them on their own. And if we can trap them…"

"Trap them with what?" Allison asks, "Is there something like salt that works on demons as well?"

Dean's grin is dangerous, "No." he says, "But there is this nifty thing called a devil's trap - won't hold demons of this power for long but it will be enough to get out of here."

Stiles pulls a face, "Does that mean we're splitting up?" he asks.

Isaac looks triumphant when Dean nods. "We're splitting up."


	39. Children Of The Wild Ones

"I hate you."

"I know honey, I love you to."

Stiles thinks his friendship with Isaac is the oddest thing ever. He's switched werewolf crutches and now is forced to rely on the scarf-wearing dude for support. It sucks since their friendship is based almost entirely on stupid banter with Scott usually in the middle of them to break it up.

"You know after all this is over we should go out," Isaac jokes, "Go to a movie maybe?"

"No."

"What do you mean, no?" Isaac actually sounds hurt.

"No. Do you want me to say it in Spanish? No. You'd be surprised how many languages I can say it in."

"Seriously?" Dean appears from a nearby room and pauses to stare at them. "You two are ridiculous." He then vanishes into another room across the corridor before either can say anything in response.

"Come on," Isaac moves forwards. Stiles is feeling drained, and he wonders how much longer he can last running on adrenalin. At least there is no fear of him dying suddenly anymore, but at this rate dying slowly looks like a more likely option.

Dean reappears from the room he had just ducked into, "Health inspector," he grumbles, "Health inspector. Why does nobody ever believe that shit? I can be a mother fu-freaking health inspector if I wanted to..." he shakes his head and makes for the next patient's room.

"The doctors are going to be so worried - we should have just attempted to locate the kitchens." Stiles and Isaac pause for a minute to observe Dean Winchester ducking in and out of patient's rooms. By the time he gets the end of the corridor he's making up excuses like 'sorry, looking for the bathroom' and 'oh, you're not grandma.' but still emerges successfully clutching what he has popped in to collect.

"I think the female patients' health might be drastically improved." Isaac comments unhelpfully. "Most of the males too."

Stiles casts Isaac a sideways glance, "Is now the time?" he asks. "He’s twenty years older than you! And you're dating _Allison_!"

"What?" Isaac shrugs, "We could die. I can at least appreciate what wanders in front of me."

Stiles pulls a face, "Okay, you've got a point there."

As if on cue Dean appears. The plastic bag he stole from the supply closet chinks together. "Take some," he shoves a few small containers at Stiles and Isaac. "And for god's sake don't spill any."

The little salt shakers are all in various states of being full. Stiles knows it doesn't matter. If he believes hard enough it will be enough.

"Our chances of surviving decrease all the time" Isaac grumbles mournfully, "Are you sure this stuff is going to work?"

"It works for ghosts, and Dean said it does the trick with demons too. I trust him. He's the big badass hunter here, not me. But I _can_ lay down a salt line."

"Better get to work then," Dean says.

"And then?" Isaac asks, as Stiles finally forgoes his werewolf crutch to begin sprinkling salt across the corridor. Be a spark, he tells himself. "Then what?" the obnoxious beta babbles.

"Then?" Dean is heading down to lay the other salt trail across the doorway, "Then we wait for the demon to find us."

"Have I mentioned how much I hate this plan?"

"Shut up."

***

The back-up arrives in the form of Bael's green-eyed friend. Sam doesn't know why but he's relieved it's not Belial or Malphas, since both demons would probably kill Sam on sight. He'd already managed to get away once, and that's usually the limit before they start wising up to the Winchester's very successful chances of survival.

"What do we do?" Lydia panics, "What do we do! Can't your brother--"

Sam glances around but Adam is gone, "He's worn himself out," he curses, "Maybe if we just drive--" Dean will kill him if he gets demon guts on the car but it might be preferable to Sam's own guts at this point.

"What?" Lydia shrieks, at about the same time Sam decides. "No!" she scrambles around in the seat, "Sam!" her voice rises in pitch, not quite a scream, but almost a shriek as Sam roars the engine and spins the wheel, making straight for the frail blonde Dantalion is possessing.

The demon's lips quirk and Lydia slumps slightly in her seat, as if that might help, but they're on a crash course for her. Lydia lets out a little gasp, "Sam, turn the wheel. Turn, Sam, turn!" she sounds hysterical, and on that basis alone Sam is already half-way turning the wheel when he sees Dantalion raise one hand.

She’s not aiming for the car, but they can feel is as the tyres go. Suddenly the car is sliding, metal rims on tarmac.

Lydia grabs reflexively for the door to hang onto as the car skids sideways. It's crude, the demons using such a cheap trick, but Sam has to admit that it worked.

With a snarl Dantalion is forced to actually move aside as the Impala careeners past her. It crashes into the curb and jolts to a stop, Lydia staring at Sam with wide, green eyes, shocked but unhurt.

For now.

One of the doors is wrenched open and a hand reaches in, yanking Lydia out. Sam pushes himself up, "Lydia!" he calls, making a grab for her, and when he misses he's already got his own door open, out and spinning around straight into a pair of red and black eyes.

"Oh no," Bael stands there waiting, "You have to wait a little bit longer to play your part, Winchester," red eyes swirl sickeningly, "And believe me he's gonna be _so_ happy to see you," he leers at Sam, and something flashes across his vision, crashing into his head.

The last thought Sam has as he slumps unconscious is that Dean is going to kill those demons for wrecking the car. 

***

They must be demon magnets or something, because Stiles has barely managed to make three small salt shakers create a thick line of salt across the corridor, somehow avoiding the gurneys that sit in the hallway than the demon doctor appears.

Asmodeus' lip curls in triumph as he spots them and Stiles flails slightly in alarm. Isaac grabs onto him before he sinks down, legs weak. "Uh oh," Stiles mutters. "Uh hey, Asmodeus, can I call you that?"

"Finally," the doctor grins, "Stiles, you really shouldn't be up. I didn't finish my earlier assessment of you."

"Fuck you," Isaac snarls, back peddling along with Stiles.

"Aww," the demon continues towards them, "You know maybe I'll sew your little dog's mouth shut along with your own. Save me some peace and quiet."

Isaac snarls at that, and Stiles thinks his eyes must flash gold. Dean chooses his moment to step out from behind the demon and to grin obnoxiously as he drops the last section of the salt line in the doorway.

"Good luck with that," the hunter says, and Asmodeus spins around.

The demon looks confused, "What do you--" he stops, because he can see the line of white powder that trails at Dean's feet. Stiles doesn't know how or why it works, but he believes, he knows it will hold. He's made sure, and the demon won't cross this salt line before they're well out of the nearby vicinity. And now they don't have to worry about dodging anyone, and the pair of them can easily meet up with Dean as they navigate the maze of corridors.

Stiles grins, speaking before Isaac can spoil the moment, "Defeat tastes bitter, doesn't it?" he asks, "Or is that just the salt?"

Asmodeus spins back around to Isaac and Stiles, hand lashing out. The salt barrier ripples gold but doesn't budge. The demon looks furious. The white-eyes wants to snarl or shout but he settles for sneering, "You think you're so clever," he sneers, "With your little tricks and trinkets. But you're not going to win this. This…? This is our game."

Stiles laughs and he's enjoying every second of it. "No it's not." he chuckles, "Even if this was your game - now? Now it's our game. And we're winning."

***

It's an empty operating room that they find the demon and her pet in. The wolf stays silent, but the way he looks at Lexi makes her feel uncomfortable.

It's been easy to navigate the hospital. Half the staff are absent, and the corridors are mostly empty this early in the morning.

They don't so much as find the operating room, as they see the blue-eyed beta in the distance and spin around looking for an escape and run right into it. The demon waits there grinning at them.

The door behind them bangs open as the werewolf sidles in and Allison pulls out her crossbow. She's loosed an arrow before any words can be exchanged.

The demon catches the arrow with a laugh, "This is a hospital," she croons, "A little girl like you shouldn't have such dangerous weapons in here."

"Then you shouldn't bring your pets," Lexi sneers, disgusted at the wolf that trails behind the demon like a love sick puppy. She spins around with a kick that the wolf catches on instinct. She uses the support he gives her to launch herself up and over him in some feat of werewolf gymnastics. She flies over his head, and actually reaches the wall which she uses as another support, shoving herself back off it and towards the wolf. He's barely managed to turn around when she lands on him, claws and fangs out sending him flying. There is a crack and she knows she definitely managed to break one of his arms.

He crashes into the wall and stumbles upright, eyes wide with surprise. He mouths something that Lexi thinks might be her name but she doesn't care.

"Oh? The little girls are going to fight?" the demon croons behind her. "How sweet."

***

"I'm not a little girl," Allison spits, "I can take you on."

"Are you?" the demon clenches her hand and the arrow that is still held within snaps. It's metal, but it breaks like a twig. "I'd like to see you try. Girl."

"Go on then!" Allison holds out her hands, crossbow limp, "Toss me aside with your superpowers. It doesn't make you any better. You're just another big bad monster, showing off!" she snarls.

"For you little girl?" Naamah laughs, "I don't need powers." She steps forwards and Allison's grin breaks on her face. "What?" she asks, "Like you have a chance."

"I don't know," Allison steps back, "I think I stand a pretty good chance. Bitch." and she glances down at the ground, at the painted lines that circle the demon.

Naamah frowns, following her gaze. With a snarl her head snaps up, eyes sliding to black. She steps forwards in anger, "Why you--" but she can't move any further beyond the trap.

"For you?" Allison smirks, "I don't even need to raise a hand." she spins around triumphantly, ignoring the words that are tossed at her.

There is a howl and the werewolf slumps down against a wall. Lexi brushes off her hands. "I think we're done here," she says, backing away from where the blue-eyed wolf stares at her with a devastated expression. He looks defeated, slumped there.

Allison doesn't care. "Good," she says, "Let's find the others."

As planned, Dean, Stiles and Isaac have already made it to the car.

"Any problems?" Allison asks as she slips in the back seat next with Lexi, Stiles slumped next to her, eyes closed and breathing heavy.

"Drive," Dean snaps to Isaac, "Just drive."

***

Sam wakes with a groan and his first thought is that Dean is going to kill him. The car is sitting sprawled on the side of the road, and he's lying half sprawled against it, the driver’s door hanging open along with the passenger door.

His second thought is that there is no Lydia.

There are no demons either.

He groans, bruised but not broken as he manoeuvres himself upright, half falling out back onto the road in his attempt. He shoves himself up, looking about at the dim streets. The sun is rising in the distance.

"Lydia!" he calls, but he knows it's useless. The demons have her. Again.

A melody tinkles through the night and his hand goes reflexively for his pocket. His phone isn't in there.

He remembers throwing it into the back seat and with stiff muscles he ducks down, peering into the back. He spots the phone and precedes some awkward stretches before his hand closes around the device.

It's stopped ringing, but as he draws back and stands it starts again. "Hello?" he asks, wearily.

"Sam, I'm sorry we should have stopped him but he gave them the lance and it was stupid and--"

Sam frowns, "What?" he asks, "I--Scott?"

"Yeah. There were these three dudes here. They said they were angels and they asked for the spear."

Sam's stomach sinks, "Scott, say that you didn't… please god say that you didn't…"

"It wasn't his fault," Jethro snatches up the phone, "It was my choice. I gave it to them."

Anger bubbles up in Sam. His head falls back onto the headrest and he curses. On the other side of the phone there is silence.

"I told you it was stupid," the British girl hisses.

"Is that all?" Sam asks. Everything is going wrong. Absolutely everything. Could not a single thing go right for once in their life?

"Uh, yeah. There's another angel here. He says his name is Cast-eel. He's wearing a trench coat."

And despite everything, a small grin works its way onto Sam's face.

***

The smiles are brittle when Stiles gets back with the others. He collapses on one of the sofas and is about to close his eyes and sink into oblivion when Sam stumbles in.

"They've got Lydia," is the first thing out of his mouth and Stiles is up on his feet without even thinking about it, falling over in the process.

"They what?" he snaps, "How could you just--" and he would stalk over there to punch Winchester in the face if it wasn't for the fact that he had somehow sunk back onto the sofa.

Sam just shakes his head, stepping over. "Hey Cas," he greets the trench-coated guy that Stiles hadn't really noticed before, what with being half-dead and all. The guy is talking earnestly to Dean.

"Is that his boyfriend?" Stiles asks, peering at where the older hunter and his trench coated 'angel' were leaning close, well within personal space boundaries. The Winchester had his hand on the guy's shoulder and was whispering something urgently.

Sam grins. "Yes." he nods, "Oh yes." And his gaze is mischievous.

Stiles wants to grin along but his stitches itch and Isaac is currently holding onto his arm taking away pain like the irritating werewolf he is. Scott sits opposite, watching him with a concerned gaze. "We'll get her back," he says, "But you should stay here, Stiles. You're injured and I… I can't lose you too."

"We haven't lost her," Stiles insists, pulling his arm away from Isaac and his stupid pain-healing properties, "And I'm fine. Who's Dean's boyfriend?"

"My name is Castiel," the man in question steps forwards, "I'm an angel."

Stiles opens his mouth to protest but closes it again. He's too tired. "Right." he says, "Angels are a thing too apparently."

"Yes," Sam growls out, "And that doesn't mean you just trust them when they turn up. _What_ were you _thinking_?" he directs this to Jethro.

"He wasn't," Nate snarls, "He was being an _idiot_."

Jethro shakes his head stubbornly, "They were _good_! I could _sense_ it! They weren't lying."

"Of course they weren't lying!" Sam snarls, "What did they say? Huh? That they wanted to go home? Did they mention the part about how they don’t care who gets in their way on their rampage back up to Heaven?”

"What?" Jethro looks lost. “They said they wanted paradise.”

Dean is frowning too, "Sam…" he asks, "What did they do…? What did he _do_? You see this is why we don’t hunt with _kids_ …"

“Hey--! _You_ weren’t answering your phone!”

“Because there was a fucking _demon_ \--“

Stiles closes his eyes, because at this moment all he can think about is how much it hurts. Not just his physical injuries, but the emotional ones too.

Lydia is missing again. He couldn't keep her safe because he was in hospital, being his usual human self.

God, he was pathetic.

He becomes vaguely aware that someone is standing over him. The others are arguing by the table, but Castiel stands there watching him with grave, blue eyes. The eyes are ancient, and Stiles doesn't doubt that he is an angel.

"What?" he asks, slightly irritably.

It seems to cement some sort of decision as the angel leans forwards. "This might hurt." Is the only warning Stiles gets before a palm presses against Stiles chest, right over his heart and warmth shoots through him. It doesn't hurt, so much as burn and he winces, but seconds later the warmth cools down.

"Dude?" his eyes fly open, "What the--" he stops, because despite only having the stitches for one night, he's already used to the familiar tugging at the corner of his mouth.

And that is gone.

He gapes, one hand flying to his face. It's smooth. Almost smooth at least. There is a faint line he can feel but the gaping stitches are gone.

"You're healed!" Scott gapes.

"Pointing out the obvious," Stiles says numbly, and shoves away the collar of his shirt to see the shoulder wound. He winces at the movement, but his left hand can move, and the purple bruises have gone.

"I'm sorry," Castiel says, actually sounding worried, "I couldn't heal it completely." he seems regretful.

"No, no this is great." Stiles swallows down the emotion, staggers upright, revitalised, and moves over to the window. He can see his reflection in it, faint and shadowy. Carefully he peels away the bandaging from the shoulder wound, and there is no blood. He can see the angry red scar, flesh healed and not bleeding. It's like a claw mark, a pink cord like line ringed in red with spider web thin lines spiking from the main injury. It's like the flesh had torn beneath the demon's touch, and Stiles vaguely remembers long fingers pulling in.

He looks back up, letting his collar slide back and touching his face again. There's a slight scar, but it looks months, if not years old. "Thank you," he says again, and the angel just nods.

"What's with the trench coat?" Isaac asks sceptically, ruining the moment, "Do all angels look like tax accountants?"

"It's an overcoat, actually," Stiles feels the strong need to correct Isaac, because the guy is annoying enough as it is without being right all the time.

Scott grins up at him from the sofa, "Well it looks like you're back in the game."

Stiles grins, "Hell yeah. Now, I told that demon at the hospital that we were winning this game. They may have captured our queen, but all the knights and bishops and stupid little pawns are still here fighting."

Scott groans at his words, head in hands, while Isaac curls his lip, scornfully. "Is everything a chess metaphor with you?"

"Yes." Stiles says. "Because we're going to win."

"How do you know?" Scott asks, "Because sometimes… sometimes people don't win. I mean - I suck at chess! I always lose." There is almost a whine in his voice.

"But you've got us," Stiles grins, "And didn't you know? First rule of a good story. The good guys always win."

***

Dean is glad that Castiel is here. He feels like a little bit more stability has followed them here. Since Crowley has obviously abandoned them to face this alone, having another ally here makes him feel slightly more comfortable around the pack of teenage werewolves.

"You okay?" he asks Castiel at some point that morning.

Castiel nods stiffly, "I am well." he examines Dean's face, "And you?"

Dean shrugs, because he doesn't want to lie, but at the same time he doesn't want to pour open his thoughts which grow more dangerous and dark by the day. "That angel faction are here," he says.

"So I hear," Castiel says gravely, "And I hear you lost the spear."

"We didn't lose it. _He_ gave it away."

Jethro glares at them, "I made a call that nobody else seemed prepared to make."

"It wasn't the right one!" Nate growls at him. She seems scornful of her pack mate.

Sam just looks between her and Scott, "Both of you could have stopped him." he points out. The pair look down guiltily.

"Okay, great, fantastic, so we've established that Jethro fucked things up with that decision," Stiles slumps into a seat at the table, Allison leaning over next to him, "Now can we plan on how to get Lydia back?"

The young hunter looks up, "I agree," she says, "That should be our main priority."

Jethro is pacing by the window, "You see that's the thing." he snaps, "I don't think it is. We've spent all this time chasing after demons and whatever other monsters wander our way but we - they're just distractions. We should be focussed on the bigger picture here!"

From where Nate and Scott stand, the blonde girl whirls around, "What? Like helping out what we now discover are a group of rogue angels?"

"We need to get the demons out of the picture," Sam says, "I think that's our priority."

"But you said that nothing could kill them!" Lexi protests, "Those bullets you have and blades - they only slow them down. We can't trap them in salt and devil's traps forever. They'd break free."

Castiel looks frustrated, "How much holy oil do you have left?" he asks Dean.

"Not enough," Sam answers for him. "Will they burn?"

"Yes," Castiel nods, "The Colt would have killed them. Also an archangel blade."

"And they're dead," Sam sighs.

"Actually, Gabriel may be alive. Unless it was a trick of Metatron's."

Dean is so thankful he wasn't drinking anything at that moment because he would have spat it right back out again, "Well that's helpful," he sighs, "Because even then he'd be more likely to run than to help us. Which leaves us with a cup of holy oil. Some angel blades. And some werewolf fangs." He gestures to the group scattered around the table. Isaac wanders in front the kitchen, a cup of coffee cradled in his hands.

"And claws," the beta points out.

"Oh, yes, don't forget the claws," Stiles' head drops to the table on top of a pile of notes. "Great job Wolverine."

"I don't see what a man with a genetic mutation has to do with this." Castiel frowns. Dean and Sam gape at him. Dean begins shoving the books into piles, wondering when the hell Castiel got so savvy with references.

"That's not the point," Stiles moans, "Dude, it's just--" he gives up, "Never mind."

"What are these?" Dean shifts aside piles of internet print out with symbols over them.

"Oh those are the weird sigils we started to see everywhere," Stiles points out, "I did a research binge on them. You don’t want to know how much Adderall I took. Most are angel symbols, but I'm pretty sure that one means the devil."

Sam is staring at the sheet. "What is it?" Dean asks.

Sam shrugs, "They just - they look familiar. Like I've seen them before but I can't place it--" he winces, because whatever it is, it's still out of his reach.

Dean is about to shift it to one side when Castiel reaches out a hand and places it on the paper, staring at the sigils. "It is warding." he says, "It's warding to the cage."

"Cage? Like, Lucifer's cage?"

Sam winces, "That would be why it looks familiar. But why--" he turns to Stiles, Scott and Allison, "Why were you seeing symbols everywhere?"

Stiles laughs, "Oh we were seeing everything. Ghosts. Hearing voices. Straight out losing our minds. We still sort of are."

"It happened after the ritual," Allison adds, "The one when we sacrificed ourselves to the Nemeton and gave power back to it."

Scott nods, "Deaton said we'd have a darkness around our hearts. We just sort of assumed this was it."

"You tied yourself to the tree?" Sam asks, frowning, "The same tree that is over a hell gate."

"So the symbols are bleeding through the hell mouth," Nate shrugs, "Along with the voices and veil stuff? Those three are just a little more tied to it now."

Dean considers it, "But the cage - that's central hell. To be bleeding through that hell mouth must go pretty deep."

Castiel is still looking through the various sheets of paper, "They're all to the cage," he says, "All of them. The hell gate must be really deep. Or maybe--" he stops, blue eyes startlingly wide. "The cage warding is bleeding through because it's not a gate to Hell. It's a gate to the cage."

"What's in the cage?" Allison thinks to ask the right question.

Sam looks like he's choking when Castiel looks up, and even Dean can see how worried he is. "The cage is where the devil is trapped. It's where Michael and Lucifer are."

"And… if it opens?" Isaac asks, because as if Michael and Lucifer being out isn't bad enough.

"If the cage opens…" Castiel looks at Dean and Sam, because they know all too well what happens, "If it opens then chaos is unleashed. The horsemen will rise again, people will die." he looks around, "I believe you call it End Times."


	40. If The Sky Opened Up And Started Pouring Rain

"Lucifer?" Nate sneers, "Lucifer doesn't exist. He's just a tale to frighten pups with!"

“Lucifer's greatest feat was convincing everyone he doesn't exist." Stiles quotes, "I don't know about you but I've seen enough demons to last a life time. The devil… isn't that much of a big step."

"But why here?" Scott asks, seeming to really regret his life choices, "And why now?"

"Because it's Abaddon," Dean shrugs, "And she's currently in a political election for the crown of hell against the crossroads king." Everybody is looking at him disbelieving. "But if you're right Cas--" he stares at his angel.

Castiel nods, "This is all," he spreads out the paper, "It's all cage warding. Michael wrote it himself when he locked Lucifer up."

"That's why Adam could get through," Sam breathes, "I had been wondering how he escaped the cage but if this door - if the sacrifice to the Nemeton stopped protecting the mouth, and then hell began to leak through, then it makes sense that a human soul could get out."

"Adam is your brother, right?" Scott frowns, "That ghost?"

Nate shoves past Isaac, almost dislodging his cup of coffee as she drops her elbows on the table the other side of Allison, "Can they open it?" she asks, "We were looking for something bigger and if this is it… can they do it?"

"They'd need the precise location," Castiel glances at Sam and Dean, "Like the convent with Lilith."

There is a crack that makes everyone jump. Next to Allison, Stiles is looking up at them, hand on the table from where he had slammed it down in understanding, "That's why they need Lydia," he whispers, "She can hear through the cracks. She can tell them if they have the right place."

"They wanted her to listen for something," Sam breathes, "Back at the mansion they wanted her to confirm it for them."

"We have to get her back!" Stiles is half on his feet. Allison rests a hand on his arm and he stills under the touch.

She is staring at her friend with concern, "We can't just rush into this."

"But we can't just leave her there!"

Scott steps forwards, "They won't harm her, Stiles. They need her. If they want the right place then they need her."

"So they can do it?" Nate sounds slightly hysterical, "They can--" she takes a deep breath, "When? All the demons have been rising on the full moon does that mean they'll wait for the next full moon or…?"

"They'll use the new moon," Castiel tells them. “Not as strong as the full moon, but it will be when the wolves are at their weakest and your pack’s protection is at its lowest.”

Scott's crossed arms drop to his side and Dean takes a moment to realise what the moon shifter already has, "But that's tomorrow night," he, Sam and Scott all say it in sync.

The alpha looks restless, "We're screwed," he mutters to himself, "We're so, so screwed."

Nate continues to stare at Cas, "Do they have all the ingredients for the ritual or whatever they need to do to open the cage?"

"I believe they already have everything they need. Seven of his fallen angels. The Grail. The Spear. A few sacrifices in the right place…"

"The Nemeton…" Stiles breathes, "The Nemeton is what's keeping it closed and that means… Lydia will be there. She just needs to confirm where the door is.

"The spear - I gave it to the angels." Jethro says cautiously, "Don't they need that? The demons don't have it so that - that's good right?"

"The _angels_!" Dean punches the table, "They want _Michael_ out. They just want Michael out don't they? It's not just Lucifer trapped in there."

Sam chokes on something and when Dean turns to look at him his brother's eyes are glassy again, "They'll want us again," he chokes out, "Dean, they'll need you and I to be…" he can't even say it, "I can't," he says, sounding shattered, "Dean, I can't do that again."

Dean clenches his jaw, ignoring the curiosity of the pack, "We stop this." he says.

"Dean--" Castiel looks just as worried as Sam does, "But if we don't…"

"What?" Jethro asks, shock dawning on him, "What happens? The angels - who's Michael?"

Sam leans towards Jethro, "The angels want the cage open just as much as the demons do. Because it's not just Lucifer trapped in there. Michael - the archangel is in there too. They want to restart Armageddon."

Stiles curses something under his breath which sounds like 'fuck our lives' but Dean can't be sure.

Either way it sums up their situation pretty well.

***

"We need to find her," Stiles stands now, and Scott can see how worried he is. Healed now, the scars that are less than twenty four hours old twist up the side of his face. "I'm going to find her!"

"It's dangerous."

"Then you keep the demons off our backs!" Jethro glares, "I'm going with him." he stares around defiantly, "It's my fault! I gave the angels the spear. This means if you’re right, the demons will get it. I didn’t… I swear I didn’t know… but I need to fix this."

Nate snaps, "Don't get me started on how stupid this is. We're at a severe disadvantage. Do you want me to quote you the odds?"

"Never tell me the odds," Stiles and Jethro snap at her in sync.

"You don't even know how to defend yourself" Nate glares at Stiles.

He narrows his eyes at her, and grabs one of the pistols that Dean had put down on the table. He then proceeds to immediately check the magazine and chamber. Finding both empty, he slides a clip into place (this time stolen from Sam) and loads the chamber. He double checks the safety and then slams it down on the table, "My dad's the Sheriff," he glares at anyone who looks scornful or surprised, "I know how to use a gun. I'm not going to shoot myself in the foot."

Scott frowns, "Didn't you used to have a number of an illegal firearms dealer?"

The hunter brothers look startled.

"Haha, yeah, well, I might have you know, needed guns?" Stiles tries to laugh it off.

"What happened to that guy, anyway?" Scott frowns.

"He's in jail," Stiles shrugs, "My dad arrested him."

He shouldn't even be surprised anymore.

"We can't just rush in," Scott speaks up, "That's suicide."

"But--"

"No," he growls, "Listen." he steps forwards, and Sam and Dean step backwards so they end up standing on either side. Both of them respectively listen to him as he places his hands on the table and directs his idea to everyone. "We know where they'll be. We know when. We know how many demons."

"We know how many angels," Dean comments helpfully.

Scott nods gratefully at him, "So we split up. Half of us to distract whatever demons we can. I can't believe they'll all be hanging around the Nemeton."

"The place is half dead," Sam comments, "I don't know anything specific about the ritual…"

"They don't all need to be there." Castiel states, "In fact half of them probably won't be because the hell mouth - it's like a crack. When it opens everything is going to begin to collapse into it."

"Like with the horsemen rings--" Dean says over Scott's shoulder to his brother. Scott wishes they would stop talking about this stuff and not explaining it, but now isn't the time.

"So half of us distract them, set up traps. This is our territory. We know it better than they do. The other half go to the Nemeton. Get Lydia. Get the spear."

"And grail," Sam adds.

Scott wishes the pair would shut up, "And we stop the ritual before they finish or even start it."

"That sounds great in theory," the younger Winchester sounds wary of his plan, "But--"

"I like it," Stiles interrupts, "Right Jeth?"

Scott grins at the support of his best friend. Jethro nods and Allison puts a hand forwards, "I agree. It's simple. Basic. And that stands the greatest chance of success. Risk and reward."

"Can you think of anything better?" Nate challenges the hunters.

"It actually sounds like most of our plans," Dean sighs, "I just never realised how stupid our plans were until we hear someone else suggest it."

Scott decides to take that as a compliment and move on.

***

Sleep doesn't come easy to any of them.

They all want to be doing something, anything, but several facts remain. Stiles is half-dead, despite being healed up, and after running around the hospital for most of the night, Allison, Isaac, Dean and Lexi look like a stiff breeze could knock them over. It's why they've all collapsed in various places around the loft to sleep, but Nate just can't. She needs to be doing something.

It feels like they're wasting time. Nate's fingers tap on the table impatiently. She's angsty, nervous and her whole body is vibrating with coiled tension.

Someone sits down beside her; leaning against her and she feels herself relax. "Calm down," Scott tells her, "We've got this. We may be rushing in like idiots, but at least we're not rushing in blind."

She nods, focussing on the glass in her hand and the mixture stewing in a conical flask next to it. "I just want this over," she admits to him.

Nate feels the other alpha sigh warily. "We all do. We…" he falls silent as over by the couch where Isaac and Stiles are heaped together. Stiles is whimpering, curled in on himself. His mouth forms half words at some nightmare in his head. Isaac groans, rolling over, eyes half flickering open, probably regretting his decision to pick the comfier of the two couches over cuddling with Allison on the other one, but seconds later his eyes close and he's asleep again.

The other couch has been taken up by Allison and Lexi. It's slightly more tattered, but the two girls are buried under a pile of blanket.

"You should sleep," Nate comments to Scott. "You won't be good for anything if you're dead on your feet tomorrow."

"I just keep thinking…" Scott stares at his fingers, "What if this doesn't work? What if Stiles is wrong? What if we don't win?"

Nate turns, and grabs his hand. "You can't win every battle." She meets his gaze, soft brown eyes boring into her. "That's why you pick them. Choose your fights wisely. Use every advantage. And that..?" She presses her lips together in a thin line of a smile, "That's how you win the war."

Scott's thumb strokes over the back of her hand, "You're full of good advice," he teases her. "Maybe you should listen to yourself." he leans over, grabbing the cloth from her hands and putting it on the table. "You can make explosions later. Now? Get some sleep."

He stands, her hand falling from his fingers. She misses his warmth as he stands and heads over to the sofa. For a moment he appears to consider his options. Stiles is curled up on one end, legs outstretched over where Isaac is sprawled taking up most of the sofa. Deciding against it as the beta rolls over, limbs flailing, Scott grabs some blankets and steals several cushions off the sofa, setting them on the floor.

He looks up to Nate where she still sits by the table. "Well?" he asks. "There's room for two."

***

Dean leans against his car parked outside the loft. Nearby Scott and Stiles are arguing about illegal firearms while Nate and Lexi pack boxes of some magical voodoo into the tattered blue jeep. The hunter squints in the morning sun at the scrawl of what is probably Enochian on the pad of lined paper. It's written in tiny, but perfectly formed letters, curling together like a typewriter. "How sure are you that this is going to work?"

Castiel doesn't answer immediately, making Dean mildly nervous. "It should at least incapacitate them." he says, "Block their powers. I'm sorry, but this is all I could remember."

Dean grabs the sigils, "That's fine," he sighs, meeting Cas' gaze, "This is great. Brilliant. Better than anything else we have." He glances to where Sam is yawning over weapons with the hunter girl. Allison looks better rested than Sam, but there is a desperation behind her movements that speak of an urgency to find her friend.

The EMF metre in his pocket whines. Dean glances around, but his youngest brother isn’t visible. "Hey, Adam?" he asks to thin air anyway. "Do you think that after this you'll move on?"

The machine whines. It might be a yes, but Dean can't tell. It falls silent just after, and Dean knows that at least he's here with them for now.

Then he scoffs. Of course Adam is with them. They're his blood, he's tied to them. It's the only reason he's been stalking them across the country the past few months.

Still, it's a weird comfort to have his dead brother that he barely knows stalking him around. That probably just suggests how screwed up his life is, but Dean isn't complaining.

At this stage he'll take every advantage he can get.

***

They split up before they've even reached the preserve. The woods border half of the town in a giant sweeping arc. The school backs onto it, along with the one road into town. The Nemeton is near the south, far from the trails and lookout up north. The Hale House or what is left of it can be found to the west, just far enough in the preserve to be hidden, but just far enough in to be considered 'out of town'.

The wolves vanish off to the north, taking off running. "You sure those things are going to work?" Sam asks when they finally park, clambering out of the sleek black Impala and turning to where Allison is awkwardly extracting herself from Stiles' jeep.

She nods, "They work. Believe me, they work."

Stiles pockets his keys and shrugs, "Not like we'll be able to tell. Since we don't have werewolf hearing and those things are ultra-sonic. That's _ultra_ -sonic, way above human hearing." he waves his arms to emphasise his point. He's feeling less dead than yesterday, but twice as desperate to find Lydia. "But demon and whatever other monsters are out there?" he shrugs, "They'll hear it." He yanks open the boot of his jeep, grabs one of the boxes that is in there but leaves the others for when the wolves finish their run around the edge of the preserve.

The wolves are being sent to not only keep the other monsters away, but to try and limit the amount of powers the demons have. Spray cans and claws and sonic emitters to try and keep everything contained before it’s even started, along with a few devil’s traps just in case things goes terribly wrong.

Stiles sits perched on the hood of his jeep while he waits for Allison to grab all her stuff. He already has all he needs. For a moment he feels guilty, because he's human and can't do much, but he pushes it down, because it would kill him to do nothing.

His knee bounces with nerves and his hands are clenched together, white and pale. "We ready?" he jumps to his feet as Dean and Allison move towards him, and the pair look armed to the teeth. Stiles never thought he'd ever trust other hunters to work with them, and he doesn't even think he'd trust the Winchesters if not for the fact that they had saved Lydia.

The pair stop and glance up.

"We're ready," Cas says, appearing from seemingly nowhere. He’s quiet and Stiles doesn’t notice him until he’s standing right there.

Stiles doesn't jump at the presence of the angel. He still thinks that the group should have at least split up evenly. He also regrets that his dad is still at home, probably still drugged from where he had left him earlier, with a black and white collie watching over him. Allison won't even talk about her dad, and so Stiles knows that the only two adults in on this are Sam, Dean and the angel.

"Then let's go," Jethro is twitchy too, "Now." He keeps looking around the forest as if he is uneasy. The cars are parked on one of the forest tracks, and the older Winchester brother keeps complaining about how his own has wrecked tyres. Apparently he no longer trusts his brother with his belongings.

The weather doesn't match the mood, Stiles thinks. In films it usually starts to rain at this point, but everything is stupidly pleasant. It's the end of April, the trees are heavy with blossoms, and the air is slightly fragranced.

"Oh no," Dean groans, and Stiles turns to stare at him, because they haven't even started yet, haven't yet started moving anywhere.

Dean is staring at the forest just below them with some kind of frustrated fury. "Really?" he mutters, "Them? _Again_? _Come_ _on_!"

Jethro stalks up until he stands next to Stiles, staring down at the people. There are about six of them, wearing dark suits and they don't look like they're the kind of people to go running around woods. "It’s them," he obviously recognises them.

"Who?" Allison asks, beginning to head towards them and Stiles follows her. "Who are they?"

"Dicks."

"Angels."

The two brothers glance at each other. "Both, yeah, both is good," Dean nods, stepping in front of Allison. "Let Cas handle this," he gestures towards where his boyfriend is heading down the slope towards them.

Stiles takes another look at them. They don't look much like angels. Then again Castiel doesn't really look like an angel either. Sam draws a silver sword and begins to head down towards them. Stiles stays with Allison and Jethro.

"What are they saying?" Jethro asks, weight shifting from foot to foot uneasily.

Things down there look tense, Sam and Castiel glaring at the angels.

"Nothing good," Allison mumbles, "They're blocking the way to the Nemeton though, that much is clear. If the Winchesters are right then they want this cage open too. Which means they're another obstacle we didn't take into account."

It's just another variable, Stiles thinks. One they didn't think of. If Lydia had been here, she would have calculated it into their plan. But Stiles can work with this, Stiles is best at improvising anyway.

There is the sound of footsteps and Isaac appears over the rise. He slows down and takes in the scene, stepping up besides Allison. He doesn't say anything, but it's clear that the wolves have done their loop. "Everything okay?"

"No," Stiles rubs at the scar along his jawline, "My jaw aches. I think it's going to rain." So much for the nice weather then.

Isaac responds by pulling the scarf from his neck off and shoving it at Stiles face. "Put this on and stop complaining."

"How is that going to help?" Stiles protests, but actually listens to Isaac, wrapping the scarf around his neck.

"Don't lose it," Isaac cautions him.

"Dude, you can't see, but I'm licking the inside of it."

The beta pulls a face at him, stepping closer to Allison who stands beside Dean. Stiles still thinks that Isaac would probably be flashing his eyes at Dean in warning, if the beta wasn't wary of getting stabbed. Again.

"Okay, new plan needed, since those guys don't look friendly." Stiles peers down the hill, and they really, really don't. Swords are sliding out and he backs up several steps.

"I've got one," Dean says, "You four go. Get out of here." he snaps at them.

"Now?"

"Run," he tells them, "Run or I'm going to shoot you."

"You wouldn't--" Jethro swallows when Dean pulls out a gun.

"I said run."

Stiles doesn't need to be told twice. He's off like a shot the moment he sees the gun. He ignores direction in favour of following the shadow in his head, and the steady pulse of calm. There are annoyed voices and he hopes the others are following him. He doesn't need geography to tell him where the Nemeton is.

He can feel it - a steady tug towards the ancient whorls. The Nemeton draws him to it like a Beacon in itself, but Lydia is there too, a steady anchor.

He knows exactly where he's going.


	41. Seven Devils

There are no heroes.

In life.

Monsters win.

Lydia hope victory tastes bitter.

"Is this it?"

Lydia stands in the forest, staring at the massive tree trunk that once must have been a beautiful, beautiful oak tree, but now was nothing more than a trunk with vines and leaves scattered around it, choking what is left of it.

Dantalion stalks around her, her eyes flashing periodically from blue to a vivid green. Her gaze is focussed on Lydia while Bael lounges at the edge of the circle of dead life, staring at the Nemeton.

Lydia swallows, "Yes," she says. It's what they want to know, and so she tells them, "Yes, this is it."

"But can you hear him?" Belial breathes, standing right behind her. She can feels his breath on her neck as he brushes aside strands of hair. She clenches her eyes closed. She's spent the past day curled up in a random building in town, just listening to these abominations whispering and laughing together. She's near the end of her sanity, the string already shortened by a certain werewolf named Peter Hale. "Can you hear it? The voices? _His_ voice?"

"Yes," she whispers, because she's trying not to. But even she can hear them. They're just so loud. So bright. "Yes, I can hear them."

"Them?" Dantalion sneers, and spins to face the captives she has cowering by the tree trunk, "It will be just him soon enough."

"Relaaaax," Belial croons, and slips past where Lydia stands to join his demon friend, "Wonder Mike doesn't stand a chance."

She knows theoretically who they are talking about. It sends shivers down her spine and in her ears the angels scream, loud, high pitched ringing screams and words that become nothing more than intangible sound the louder they call.

The others will come. She knows this as certain as she knows what entities prowl the other side of that crack.

"Do you hear that, precious?" Belial croons, yellow eyes flashing. "We're going to rip it up. Tear it all open. Not just your pretty boyfriend's throat, but the rest of your little pack too."

"And you, pretty banshee…" Dantalion glances over from where she stands in front of the captives. "You'll feel each and every single death," she nudges one of the people tied and bound by her feet, "Including this one," and she snaps his neck.

Lydia winces as blood chokes out of the dead man's mouth. The demon tosses the body carelessly on the Nemeton, on top of two more that are already there. Something bubbles in her throat and she has no idea if it's a scream or a hysterical sob.

Three are dead already, their blood staining the dead wood of the Nemeton. Four more sit there, wide eyes staring at the green eyed demon. Lydia doesn't know of their names, only that they're beyond help. She knows she can't save them.

They're already dead.

***

"This is wrong," Castiel spits, circling Kamael. "You understand what you are unleashing, don't you?" Dean watches the pair argue, glancing sideways at his brother.

"I hope those kids get everything in place," he whispers.

"They'll do it," Sam assures him, "Let's just focus on our current problem."

"Thanks for the lance," Remiel grins smugly at Dean, "We knew you were keeping it close to your chest. It was only a matter of time before you grew lax in carrying it."

"I never thought you'd fall this low," Dean growls back, "Consorting with demons and your fallen kin."

Remiel just laughs. Next to her, Zophiel looks uncomfortable. "We have to do it," the dark skinned angel argues, "It's the only way back into Heaven. To get our wings back."

"Your wings?" Sam exclaims, "They're gone. They _burnt_. Believe me, I know what that feels like, but they're broken and you won't be getting them back this way! You open that door and you're unleashing destruction on us all!"

Remiel sniffs, "Then we get our paradise, one way or another. Michael won't lose. Not with you two dead." and she starts forwards.

"Woah!" Dean backs up, "You need us. We're the vessels, right?"

"You were," another angel points out, "But with that mark on your arm, you're actually pretty useless. With him..." Elyon nods towards Sam, "With him being Lucifer's vessel, well, you two are better dead.

"Well that's nice," Dean sighs, hefting his angel sword. "At least you're being honest about your intentions…" he steps aside as Remiel brings her sword swinging around towards him.

***

She trips over leaves but keeps running. Looking up she can't see anything but trees and falling blossoms in the breeze. Ahead she spots Isaac, racing forwards and pausing, spinning around before taking off again. Stiles and Jethro are no longer in sight.

"Isaac!" she calls, "Slow down! We've lost them!"

He skids to a halt, "How?" he asks, spinning around, "We were right behind them! I had their scent and then they just…" he shakes his head, casting his gaze around, "Can you find your way to the Nemeton?"

"I--" Allison shakes her head, "I don't know…" she feels fear bubbling up in her throat. "I'm sorry," she blurts out, because she's failing him again, "I'm sorry, I don't think I can…"

"Hey! Woah!" Isaac grabs her hands, "That's fine. Don't panic." he stops her from flailing and she relaxes slightly. "We can go back to Dean and Sam. Or…"

"Back to the jeep." Allison decides, pushing aside her emotions and trusting her instincts, "We meet up with Scott and Nate."

He nods, like her plan is sound, and not full of holes. Like they aren't abandoning their friends.

She realises dimly that she doesn't like responsibility. The last time she had it, Erica and Boyd ended up strung up in a basement and she teamed up with Gerard. This time her decisions could make or break their whole plan.

People could die.

She just speed up her pace through the woods. Isaac follows behind her. "Where's your scarf?" she asks him.

"Gave it to Stiles to stop him whining," Isaac shrugs it off.

Allison thinks it's kind of cute how Stiles and Isaac pretend to not be friends.

"Did it work?" she asks.

"No," he sounds disgruntled.

"Well that's too bad," a new voice says, and Allison's crossbow comes up and is loaded before the arrival has even stepped into view. It's a woman, dark hair. It's the same one from the hospital, the same one from before. Her eyes are black. Naamah observes the pair for a moment, "Look who we've caught out here. All. Alone." She savours the word.

There is a snarl from the side and Allison whirls around as a shape knocks into Isaac. It's the demon's pet - a blue-eyed werewolf. Isaac flashes golden eyes and shoves him off, rolling over with a snarl.

Allison spins back to the demon, "Glad to know you were expecting us," she grins, crossbow up.

The demon grins, and it's all teeth as she stalks towards Allison. "For you little girl? I marked it down in my calendar," her eyes flutter back to human green. This is the demon that tore apart a pack of werewolves for fun.

What chance does Allison stand against her?

She ignores the weight of impossibility, instead glancing sideways, "Isaac!" she calls out, and he reacts on instinct. She tosses her weapon sideways and he catches it, pulling the trigger and neatly hitting the blue-eyed wolf in the chest. He gasps, clutching at the shaft, but Allison doesn't watch for long. She'll pulling a silver blade from her pocket and lunging towards the demon.

Naamah sidesteps with a laugh. "Are we really going to do this again? There are no devil's traps around to save you now."

"I don't need traps." Allison spins the blade around like her knives, "Not for you."

With a snarl the demon steps forwards to meet her next stab of the blade.

***

Scott sinks the emitter into the soft bark of the tree, while Lexi scrawls out symbols in the dirt with a stick.

Nate jogs over, "I'm done," she holds out her hands, out of Argent's ultrasonic emitters. Scott is relieved, because the piercing noise is beginning to give him a headache. "I sent Isaac back to tell the others," Nate adds.

Lexi stands, brushing off her hands. "My university application is going to suck," she shares with them as they begin to head back to the jeep. "All my real life experience is archaic symbols, solving murders and getting rid of evidence."

She's trying to lighten the mood, and Scott grabs the opportunity. He doesn't want to think of his friends running around this likely demon infested forest.

"You can talk about how we're stopping the destruction of the world or something," he shrugs.

"There's no such thing as something that can destroy the world," Nate adds in mildly.

Scott considers this. "A year ago I would have said there was no such thing as werewolves."

Nate hums a little bit. "That's different."

"Derek is convinced there are no such things as vampires either and look how that turned out. An aswang tried to suck a baby’s insides out."

"That's not exactly…"

"Or demons…" Scott adds, "What's next? The tooth fairy?"

"We used to have a fairy circle back in our old territory." Scott tries not to notice how Lexi referred to their previous home as 'old territory.'

Instead he chokes at the idea of fairies, "Wait… does that mean pixies might be a thing?"

"Well apparently," Nate hopes over a fallen over tree trunk behind them, "Apparently Hell is a thing. And the devil. And angels. And…" It's without warning that something catches Nate in an invisible grip, yanking her to one side. Lexi and Scott whirl around, red and gold eyes blazing as they snarl.

"Oh, I'm sorry," a woman stalks up, one hand casually held out towards where Nate fell. She's unfamiliar to them; red hair and a dark leather jacket. She smiles. Her red lips twitch up in sick amusement, "Belial really wasn't kidding when he said there were dogs about," she laughs. She's like a stalking cat, hands clapping together once as she surveys the scene, "Well isn't this nice?" she grins, her eyes flashing pitch black.

Scott's mind races through the fallen angels that have risen.

Or the ones that had been already out. "Abaddon." he concludes and she laughs.

"Looks like you've heard about me…"

To the side Nate shoves herself up with a snarl, but the demon curls her lip and suddenly Nate is pinned to the ground, gravity too heavy to overcome.

"Let her go!" Lexi snarls, eyes golden.

Abaddon tilts her head, "Okay," she says, and unclenches her fist. "But you and I, dog, need to have a little talk about a regime change in this town. You see…" She takes a step forwards, eyes focussing on Scott. "This town is mine now."

Scott snarls, hackles raised. "Beacon Hills is mine," he growls, claws flashing out, "We're the guardians."

"And I'm a knight of hell, mutt. I wasn't asking."

"I don't care what you are!" Scott snarls. "You'll die just the same."

"Oh? The puppy has some bark. How much bite do you have to back it up though? Because, really… Scott, isn't it?" Abaddon laughs, "You didn't really think we'd be here alone, did you?"

At her heel something snarls.

***

"Well this is awkward," Dean says, attempting to ease the tension between the angels as he ducks under another angel blade. "Do you really have to try to kill us? I thought we were getting along!"

"Nice try," Remiel stabs at him and Dean deflects the blade. It still cuts along his arm and he hisses with pain.

"Rude," Dean hisses between clenched teeth, striking back and knocking the blade from her hand.

She ignores her loss of a weapon to grab Dean's wrist tightly, preventing him from lashing out with his own blade. She knocks his hand to one side, and Dean hisses because his wrist isn't meant to bend at that angle. She kicks out at him and he stumbles, almost falling if not for her strong grip in his collar.

"You know what they say about you now, Dean Winchester. Michael’s Sword, his _vessel_ ," she mocks, glaring at him.

"Something good, I hope," Dean blinks, winded. Nearby Sam loses his blade as Elyon and Ariel team up against him.

"That you're an abomination. That you and Sam are more alike now than ever before. And you know what?" she leans closer, whispering in his ear, "They were right."

Dean knocks her away, drawing strength from somewhere. She staggers backwards. Almost instantly the dark skinned angel is there, taking Remiel’s place and there is no way Dean is going to be able to twist to avoid the angel blade hurtling towards his heart.

"You look like you need a little help," and someone moves forwards, and there is suddenly a silver blade through Zophiel’s chest. She stares down at in shock, choking. Her head is thrown back and blue white light spills from her mouth and eyes as Dean looks away, stumbling backwards.

When he looks back, Malphas is watch dispassionately as the empty body falls to the ground. "Well," he grins up at Dean, "Don't say I never did anything for you."

"You!" Kamael knocks Cas' blade aside and fixes his eyes upon the demon. "What do you want?" he steps forwards. Castiel glances between the angel and demon and steps back, eyes meeting Dean's.

"Nu uh," another demon steps in between the angel and the orange eyes. "Not so quick." Asmodeus chides. "We're here to check you don't get too…" he clicks his tongue, "…eager."

Dean and Sam suddenly find themselves sans angels as the remaining flock move away from them towards Kamael.

"You killed Zophiel!" Remiel glares at them, "That wasn't agreed upon! You said you wouldn't touch our own!"

"We had a deal, demon!" Kamael stalks up, eyes flashing blue with grace. He glares at Malphas who, unconcerned, examines his nails and sniffs.

"Then you should know by now, that I'm no crossroads demon. And I?" His gaze flashes up suddenly, eyes flaring orange, "I have no reason to keep to my end of the bargain."

He gestures with one hand and there is a growl by his side.

"Hellhound," Cas blurts out, stepping back.

"Not just," Asmodeus steps forwards, "We've brought some friends." and next to him something creeps out of the shadows.

"Demons," Ariel steps backwards, drawing an angels sword. Dean pales at the sight as spindly claws reach out of the shadows, clawing its way forwards.

It has no host. No host, no possessed person, but that means it's just a demon. It's nothing but a cindered soul. Mostly it looks like smoke but as its form begins to materialise, they can see mat black eyes and fangs. Its body is like burning cinders and it's face is twisted like a gargoyle.

"They got through the hell gate," Sam breathes in horror, "If Adam could get through then they… they got through too."

Dean has never felt happier that he has an anti-possession tattoo, but he worries for the humans. The wolves, coatl and banshee can't be possessed, but Stiles and Allison are still at risk.

Asmodeus reaches out, stroking the spine of one of the creatures that arches under his touch. "Beautiful, aren't they? We thought it was fitting, what with hell on earth and all," he leers at them.

"They are abominations…" Kamael glares, as more and more of the demonic smoke monsters begins to materialise. Dean begins to back away.

"You would say that, brother," Malphas sighs, "You never did appreciate true beauty."

"We are not your brothers," Kamael snaps, "Not anymore. Not after what you did, who you sided with."

"Shame, that," Asmodeus raises his hand and the demon he had been petting leaps forwards towards the angel.

Dean doesn't hang around to see what happens. He yanks Sam backwards with a shout. "Run!" he says, "Get to the others."

Something whistles through the air, pinning one of the smoke demons by a wing to the tree. It screeches and writhes on the angel blade it's pinned on, and Cas steps back, nodding at Dean.

Let the angels handle this, Dean thinks, as the three of them back off from the bickering demons and angels.

***

"Are they following us?"

"I'm not looking!"

"Dean…" Castiel actually stops - the idiot - to look over his shoulder, "Where's Sam?"

"What do you mean 'where's Sam?'?" Dean spins around, "He was right behind… oh my god, where's Sam?"

He scans the forest, and then is forced to duck as something hurtles through the air snarling.

There is a flash of light and Cas knocks it away with a glowing hand. "Keep moving," he snaps. "It isn't safe."

"How the hell did they get those things out of hell?" Dean bemoans, breaking into a jog up north. "Are we sure those kids will be up here?" he asks.

"Yes. Just stick to the plan," Cas reassures him.

"What plan?" Dean throws his hands up in the air, "The plan went out the window the minute the angels showed up. Then the demons and angels started having a pissing match and…" he skids to a halt when more demon materialise out of the shadows in front of him. He stabs one, ducks under the claws of another. Castiel catches it as it swoops past and snaps it's neck, tossing the being aside. It dissolves into smoke and ash and vanishes from sight. "The forest is full of these things," Dean curses, sinking the blade into another one. It lights up in a typical demon flash and burns itself out, still impaled on his blade.

"I'll hold them off," Castiel grits out, stabbing another hellfire creature. He then swipes his blade into thin air and something howls and lights up. There are hell hounds too, Dean realises with a start.

"Are you sure?" he asks, kicking away one ash creature and carving a chunk out of another one until it pulls away, screaming. "They say that in the horror movies, and then you never see those characters again."

"This is not a movie, Dean." Cas spins around and holds up one hand. For a moment a bright glow emanates from his palm, and the ash creatures in the nearby vicinity all disintegrate like vampires in the sun.

"Be careful, Dean," Cas warns him, taking advantage of the break to turn to him, blue eyes boring into his own green ones.

"Yeah, you too," he nods towards the angel, "I'll come find you once I've got Sam, okay?"

Cas nods in agreement, peeling off his beige coat and throws it carelessly to one side - and holy crap Dean never thought taking one layer of clothing off could be so hot.

And yeah - life was a bitch but for once Dean Winchester was going to ask for a little bit more as he strides towards the angel.

"Dean?" Dean asks, confusion in his gravelly voice, and that cements Dean's decision, any worries about his sexuality being thrown out the window and discarded, burnt, the window slammed shut.

He's going to Hell anyway, and he might as well take what he can get while he still has it. If they succeed here then at least something good has come out of it. If they fail, then everything is going to end up like that ruined future he tries so hard to forget about, six months and counting until he can finally stop having nightmares about it. If they die, then at least he can say he tried everything.

He really needs to stop thinking.

He settles for grabbing the lapels of Cas' black suit jacket and yanking the angel forwards. Cas moves with him, less of an unmoving rock as much as a warm receptive body, more human, more understanding…

Dean presses his mouth against the angel's in a frantic searing kiss. For a moment Cas is unreceptive to him, and Dean's hands drop from his collar. He is about to break away and laugh it off when the angel responds, warm, pliant but intent.

Dean is no longer as much as giving as receiving and - wow - he thinks, slightly blissed out - Cas learned a lot from that pizza man.

He presses forwards, hands finding their way into Cas' hair as the pair part, Dean gasping for breath while the angel is as calm as ever, a faint, confused quirk on his lips.

"For luck?" Dean asks, wishing he sounded more confident.

Castiel stares at him with blue eyes, "We will both get out of this alive, Dean." He says seriously. Dean swallows, thinking about croatoanlucifersamdrugscolttwentyfourteen and says weakly, "Yeah… and when we do we can finish this - maybe?"

Castiel blinks, and for a moment Dean knows he is going to refuse. Then: "I would like that."

He considers kissing the angel again, but decides against it, spinning around and stabbing a nearby smoke demon that had decided to creep up on them just to interrupt their moment. It turns to ash and he yanks the blade out.

When he turns to look back over his shoulder Castiel is gone. His heart flutters slightly and grinning like an idiot, he spins around and stabs another demon, just for luck.

***

Scott backs up slightly as smoke forms into a monstrous looking gargoyle creature. It's form is flecked with glowing red hot embers and it stinks like sulphur and smoke.

"What is that?" Lexi backs up, her gaze shooting to where Nate stumbles upwards.

"This?" Abaddon laughs, "This is what a demon looks like without a host. Your precious Nemeton tree provides them with just enough power to coalesce a form on their own. It saves us having to track down extra meat suits." Her grin is not pleasant and Scott bares his teeth at her.

One of the creatures leaps and he impales it on his claws, tossing it to one side. Abaddon chides the creatures, "Patience," she chirps, "I want the mongrel to see it when his precious little town burns into bits."

"You monster!" Nate lunges forwards and is beset by several demonic ash gargoyles. She snarls at them, claws swiping out, but they are quick and small, tearing into her and knocking her back.

"Be good," the black-eyed demon chides her, "And nobody has to get hurt… Nobody has to die…" her head tilts to one side, "It’s a shame your little friends are already dead," a malicious grin spreads across her face.

Scott's stomach lurches. "No," he gasps out.

Lexi growls, "You're lying!" she spits out.

"Listen to my heart," Abaddon shrugs, "Your. Friends. Are. Dead."

"Demons lie," Lexi remains adamant, "Scott, don't believe her."

He shakes his head, hopelessly. They're losing, he realises suddenly. They're going to lose.

"Demons lie," Abaddon admits easily. "But sometimes we tell the truth. Especially," she purrs, "When it hurts more than the lies."

"No…" Nate stumbles back from the gargoyles, knocking them off her. Her eyes flash red suddenly with anger, "No. You've already taken one pack from me. You won't take another!" with a snarl she leaps forwards, claws flashing out and she knocks one gargoyle creature flying.

It hits a tree with a thump and slides down, only to disintegrate to ash when a silver blade pierces it's thin bony chest.

Dean Winchester grins up at them, "You're still alive," he says, "Good."

His gaze darkens when he spots the demon, "Abaddon," he growls out, fear, annoyance and anger all in one word. The knight half-turns towards him. "Winchester." Abaddon snaps, like a curse, "Belial said you were dead."

"We were," Sam slips into view next to Scott, and he lets his eyes burn alpha red.

Dean grins at the sight of his brother, "We got better."

"We get that a lot," Sam shrugs, "Sorry to disappoint." To Scott he explains, "She's a knight of hell."

"So I've heard," Scott seems unimpressed.

"The last knight of hell," she corrects them, "Cain saw to the others, but then you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?" she directs towards Dean who, despite being surrounded by werewolves, manages a pretty impressive growl in the back of his throat.

Sam's holding a bone handled knife and he switches it to his other hand, "Scott, you okay?" he asks, voice level.

Scott nods, and makes a decision as alpha. He needs to know his friends are safe. "You two okay to deal with her?" he asks.

"I think we have some things we can chat about," Dean steps forwards. "You go. We've got this handled."

"But…" Nate claws aside another gargoyle and decides against it, "Yeah, okay. God, the forest is swarming with these things."

"They're demons," Lexi realises suddenly, face pale. She spins around and bolts, "We have to get the others…"

"No!" Scott breaks into a run, but angles south, "We have to get to the jeep."

Nate falls into step besides him. "You sure?" he gestures back at Dean and Sam, "They'll be okay?"

Scott glances at the pair, "They have history," he shrugs, "Safer that way."

 He can't worry himself with wayward hunters. He has his own pack to worry about.

***

Naamah is strong. Allison understands that first hand when the demon backhands her to the ground. She gasps as the demon steps onto her hand, forcing her to drop the angel blade. "Nice play, little girl. But I think I win," she pauses to watch as Isaac and her pet roll past, snarling and quite literally going for each other's throats. "Shame," she clicks her tongue, kicking the knife out of Allison's reach and reaching down to yank Allison back up by her collar, "You and I could have had so much fun together," she purrs.

"Go to hell," Allison glares, and kicks out at the demon. Surprised at her continued resistance, Naamah drops her. The huntress rolls to the side, pulling her Chinese ring daggers from her boots and standing. "I'll take you down there with me."

"I'd like to see you try to send me back there," the black-eyed demon sneers.

A crossbow bolt lodges itself into her shoulder. She glances down, almost curiously at it. With a casual movement she grabs it, tugging it out and glaring towards where Isaac stands, bloodied but his wounds already healing.

"Sorry," Isaac grins cheekily, "Did I hit you?"

The second bolt he has loaded he shoots at where the werewolf still lies scrambling in the dirt.

"You think you're funny, boy?" Naamah glares from Isaac to Allison, "You two are nothing more than pests that I will take joy in squashing under my thumb. Do you think you can kill me with your pathetic weapons? I was there at the fall of Adam, you can't kill me!"

"Who said anything about killing you?" Allison laughs, turning her head and spitting blood to one side. "You've forgotten something," she grins at the demon, pulling herself to her feet.

"Oh?" Naamah mocks, stepping forwards, "And what's that, little girl?"

"Some _one_ ," the huntress grins, "Who really, really hates you. After you ripped her family to shreds."

Naamah's sly smile drops slightly, and she turns, following Allison's gaze to where behind her, Lexi is sprinting into view. Scott is just behind her.

"Oh no," Nate stands just off to one side, hand holding a heavy glass jar with a burning cloth shoved in it, "I think she actually means me." She grins obnoxiously, "Hi," she says, seconds before tossing her holy oil molotov cocktail straight at the black-eyed demon's face.


	42. We Must Be Killers

"There are seven sacrifices, see?" Belial explains it to her with care as he grabs another bound and blindfolded human. Lydia has no idea who they are. "Each one is guilty of a crime. A sin. And so they are punished for it," he gestures to the bodies already piled on the Nemeton.

"What about the people who are already dead?" Lydia whispers, "Were they sacrifices too?"

Bael laughs from the edge of her vision, "Think of those as the snack. A few weak willed people who couldn't cope. This? This is the main course."

A noose slips around the man's neck. The human whimpers as Belial's fingers trail along his neck and across his chest. "It's almost a shame really," the demon purrs, and yanks the gag out of the man's mouth, "There, that's better. Now…" and he tugs the other side of the rope, "Now we can hear you scream."

Or choke, Lydia thinks dimly as the noose tightens around the man's neck, ranking him up and off the ground. They're going to hang him, she realises. He's going to hang there until his last breath leaves his body.

She clenches her eyes closed, which is why she hears the pounding footsteps. She turns her head, hearing heavy breathing, and it's not from the guy choking to death.

"Enough!" Stiles skids into the clearing, almost colliding with Bael. With wide eyes, his arms flail and he ducks away from the demon. The red-eyed demon who had been lazily stalking the edge of the clearing blinks gleefully and starts after Stiles, but stops when Stiles slides out a silver gun-metal grey weapon and points at him. "Don't move!" Stiles snarls, gun held unwaveringly in his grip. He steps backwards towards Lydia, and she steps to meet him.

"I think you're a bit young to be playing with those kind of weapons," Bael clicks his tongue, disapproving. "You're not going to shoot."

Stiles narrows his eyes, head tilting to one side, "You all seem so sure about that," he says, voice dead, "But I really, really wouldn't bet on it."

Bael stops. Something in Stiles' voice must warn him away.

"Stiles," Lydia whispers. He glances around at her, gaze searching her face.

"Are you okay?" he asks, "Are you hurt, or injured…?"

"I'm fine," she reassures him.  She is just sick of being the damsel in distress. Of needing rescuing all the time. His brown gaze meets her own, searching her emotions. He's putting her own safety above his own and thrown himself head first into this for her.

It still overwhelms her how much Stiles would do for his friends.

"You should leave this game to the grown-ups," Belial croons over to the side.

Stiles glances almost carelessly at the demon who had torn him apart not forty-eight hours earlier. This can't be Stiles. His usual fumbling awkwardness and a general disagreement with gravity is gone, replaces by a calm, steady figure with a gun pointed at the demons. For the first time he reminds Lydia of his father.

Stiles also appears to have forgone his baseball bat in favour of a machete that Lydia thinks is one of Sam and Dean's. It's sheathed across his back at the moment, as he stands there.

"I'll leave this game when you give up your toys," he replies, voice steady, and he nods towards the three captives that remain bound at the base of the Nemeton. "Let them go." He is calm and full of authority, and for the first time Lydia sees his dad in him. "Let them go or I swear to god I will shoot."

"Your little bullets won't hurt us, darrrling," Dantalion croons, grinning and looking all too pleased with events.

Stiles' grin is not nice as the gun shifts slightly until it points to one of the humans tied and bundled up for slaughter, "No. But I doubt you'll get very far without your sacrifices."

"You wouldn't," the demon seems disconcerted.

There's something wrong with Stiles, Lydia realises. He's just that little bit off. There's no pacing, no sarcastic remarks, he stands there still and determined. "Won't I?"

"No," the demons are so, so confident.

Stiles' grin is dark as he swings the gun around towards the fourth hostage, still hanging choking from the tree. There is a loud shot and when Lydia looks, there is blood pouring from a wound in his leg. There is a muffled wail from them, blindfolded head snapping from side to side where they hang. Lydia gasps, because until that moment she had thought it was a bluff too.

Stiles would never shoot someone. Would he?

Dantalion hisses, "Oh, really? You want to play that game with us, _boy_?" she starts towards him, just as Jethro steps out sideways in front of her. Lydia gasps at the sight of him, his usually brown eyes a blazing, emerald green.

"I think you and I have some things to settle," Jethro practically growls out, and the air at his fingertips actually crackles with green lightning.

***

He's angry. It's a deep rage that sifts inside him like an ocean in a storm. Jethro glares at the demon, standing between her and his friends.

"Oh?" the demon tilts her head to the side, green eyes flashing. While Jethro’s are a brilliant electric green, her eyes are dark, ringed through with black. The green in her gaze is stormy, like a pine forest and full of sick, dark secrets. "The little snake wants to play, does he?" she croons, laughing, "You want revenge because you don't know what happened to poor little Luke," she glances down at her body, gaze crawling back up to him almost seductively. "Well he's not in here anymore, I can tell you that."

Jethro's hands curl into fists. They're numb, and when he glances down there is a freakish alien-green glow over them.

It's everywhere, he realises. His whole vision is spotted with light, sparking and flaring up, and he can feel it in the air. The Nemeton is one giant energy pile and he vibrates with the feel of it. "You're wrong," he spits out, "Luke isn't dead."

She laughs, "Who said anything about being dead?" she grins, leering at him, "Oh, that looks fun," she comments, as Jethro channels more of the surrounding energy towards his hands. He's not sure how he's doing it, but it's like he's scooping up water and trying to stop it all flowing back out. Except it's not water, it's energy, and the stuff clings to him like glue leaving his whole body crackling with the feel of it. It feels like another layer resting over him, like a cloak or a pelt of feathers. "Yeah?" he asks, grinning confidently, "Want to try it out?"

Her grin drops as he raises one hand and lashes out. The energy sticking to him is unleashed in one big wave and shoots towards the demon. She grits her teeth and raises her one hand, catching it.

The force of it makes her skid back several paces and with a snarl she shakes static off her hand. Jethro's never felt more alive, and he wonders vaguely if his eyes are glowing green.

He moves after the demon, hand curling in a punch. It catches her in the cheek, and for a moment he hesitates, seeing Luke's head being knocked back.

Then she whirls around and lashes out. The anger bubbles up again within like a storm, and he's the lightning directing it, as he kicks out again at her with a snarl.

***

The demon's screams ring through the air and Allison staggers backwards. She is aware of pitch black eyes through the fire, but asides from sense of revulsion; she feels only satisfaction as the demon burns.

Nate staggers towards her, grin stretching across her face, grim but determined. "That was for my pack," she steps towards Allison. Naamah's flesh is burning, and the smell makes Allison sick. Behind her Isaac gags, moving forwards, her crossbow still in his hand. There is a scrambling as the werewolf pet of the demon's scrambles backward, eyes wide.

"No," he gasps out, "No… no, we had a deal! WE HAD A DEAL!" he growls, starting forwards but Lexi appears in his eyesight. For some reason the wolf flinches back, shaking his head, and with mutterings of 'no' he turns tail and takes off, fleeing. Allison doesn't give chase.

The demon's head snaps back and black smoke erupts from the throat. She's not dead, but watching the black smoke billow out and up towards the darkening sky, it's as good as. She's gone, for now, and the body falls limply to the ground, flames spreading from the charred limbs.

"You're alive!" Scott skids forwards, relieved. "Thank god."

"I don't think god had anything to do with it," Isaac says, staring at the demon's dead host body. "Good timing." he says to Nate.

She looks smug, wrapping a hand around Lexi's shoulders and pulling her sister close protectively. "I know, right?"

"Get down!" Scott shouts, and Allison dazed obeys the alpha's roar, just as something whistles overhead.

"What the hell is that?" she asks, stealing her crossbow back from Isaac and standing. Her muscles are stiff, but adrenaline floods through her. She stares at the creature that is pierced on Scott's claws, seconds before it disintegrates to ash.

"Demon." Scott glances up at her grimly, eyes flashing red, "Come on. We need to get to the others."

"Uh… problem…" Lexi drags Nate backwards, blue eyes wide, "Allison! Move."

Heat licks at her heels and the huntress lurches forwards, turning and watching as the flames from the dead body flare up. The grass catches like it's spread with gasoline, and for a moment Allison has flashbacks to a motel and a puddle of kerosene.

She feels Scott grab her, sees Isaac lurch away as the fire, possessed by some supernatural ability, dances higher.

"Well crap," Nate curses, "That was… I uh… I fucked up…" she sighs.

"Get to the others," Scott shouts, as the fire catches a branch and takes hold, "Get to the Nemeton! Come on!" Allison whirls around, shoulder to shoulder with Scott, and Isaac on their heels as they take off.

Her heart beat thunders in her chest and above her the sky darkens a fraction more as the sun sets. Behind them the fire takes hold, and Allison doesn't think it's a normal fire. There's something about it as it burns higher, brighter, like the setting sun spreading out behind them.

And for a moment, Allison thinks she sees a figure, smirking back at her from the flames. Because these woods have burnt before, and now they will burn again. "They are rising," Kate whispers, "You're already too late."

She ignores the ghost of her dead aunt and keeps running.

But in the back of her mind, Allison knows they're not going to get there in time.

***

"Do you really think…" Dantalion catches an aura imbued punch and hangs off his arm, "…that you can stop us now?" she motions to where one of the sacrifices hangs. On the Nemeton blood congeals and a cup and a lance sit there. Both items almost blind Jethro, and he looks away, wrenching his hand out of the green-eyed demon's grip.

"We can try…" he grits out, palm slamming into her chest. She flies backwards and crashes to the ground. Jethro stalks after her.

She picks herself up, green eyes flashing. "Oh, that's it. I'm done playing nice…" she grins, and throws one hand out. There is a crack from overhead and Jethro lurches backwards, narrowly missing a tree branch crashing down from overhead.

There is a yelp as someone skids into view. It's the guy - werewolf - who hangs out with one of the demons. His eyes flash blue as he stares in bewilderment and startled horror at Jethro.

"Where's Naamah?" Dantalion snarls, hand whipping out and grabbing the werewolf by the collar.

Jethro freezes when the werewolf chokes out the word "Dead."

"Dead? How?"

"Molotov. Fire," the blue-eyed werewolf meet Jethro's gaze in shock. There's something almost familiar about the guy, about the tone of his thoughts, but then Jethro doesn't have time to think, because a gunshot rings out, capturing everyone's attentions.

Someone chokes and their heart stops.

***

"How about you put the gun down, before you shoot yourself in the foot?" Bael drawls lazily, still standing in front of Stiles. Lydia stands behind him, and Belial paces like a caged cat next to the sacrifices and the Nemeton.

"The bullets might not kill you," Stiles says, grimly, "But they will hurt. Want to find out how much?"

"Enough…" Belial snarls from the side, "He's not going to shoot. He doesn't have it in him."

Stiles' grip is tense, and in his head something bares fangs impatiently.

"Hurry up and make up your mind," Bael shrugs, "Shoot us. Shoot them. Shoot your pretty little girlfriend. Shoot something or don't, we don't have all day," his eyes flash blood red, "Either way you can't stop us."

"Can't I?" Stiles takes a measured step backwards, listening to the guy's choking gasps as he hangs there, "Because I'm pretty sure that for whatever you're doing, you need sacrifices. And if you don't have sacrifices you can't do anything, right?" and Stiles’ brain is running at a hundred miles an hour, and he's pretty sure he's going to hate himself later for whatever stupid action he comes up with in the next five seconds.

The guy slowly dying chokes, and listening to the cries, Stiles realises the sacrifice already dying, if not dead already.

He spins around, aims the gun up and pulls the trigger.

The guy stops choking.

***

"Bad idea," Bael glares at Stiles, and he has a moment to stare, startled, before the demon's hand whips out and the gun is yanked from Stiles' grip. He stumbles back into Lydia, and she grabs on. "That was a very, very bad idea," his face is dark as he steps forwards. The rope holding the hanged guy snaps, and it tumbles down to drop at Belial's feet next to the tree trunk. "Do you even know what you've done?" Bael asks, glaring at them.

Stiles answers by yanking the machete from the sheath in his back.

"Do you know how to use that?" Lydia hisses angrily, scared.

"No, not really." At least Stiles has the decency to be honest, "But it's better than a baseball bat, right?" and following that logic, if Stiles can use a baseball bat, then a machete probably isn't that much of a stretch.

"Why do you own a baseball bat anyway?" Lydia snaps.

"I don't. It's Mrs McCall's."

"Why does she own a baseball bat? Scott doesn't even play baseball!"

"I don't know! Why don't you take it up with her!" Stiles glares at her, because it is really not the time for this. A demon is stalking them down with blood quite literally burning in his eyes.

"We had a time scale," he snaps at them, "We had it planned. But you kids just had to interfere…" he lashes out, and so much for the machete as Lydia watches it sink its way into a tree blade first, ten feet from them.

"Oh… great…" Stiles lurches after it, but pulls up short. "Crap," he curses, feet glued to the ground and he looks up in fear at Bael step forwards. Lydia tries to move and finds she can't, feet rooted to the ground. She reaches out and snags Stiles’ hand, holding on to her anchor.

"Your run ends here, I think," Bael is relaxed, stalking around them. Lydia tries to follow his path, shivering as he steps behind her. "No more getting in our way. Which is a shame, because we would have loved for you to see the chaos we unleash on your little town. To watch as your family and friends all die in pain."

"Well if we could get in your way then what does that say about your ability to be decent villains?" Stiles blurts out, brain to mouth filter gone.

"I don't know?" Belial calls over by the tree stump, "What does it say?" and he steps away. Behind him there is a crack and one of the sacrifice's head twists unnaturally. There is another crunch, and their body spasms.

The bones are breaking, Lydia realises, watching as a series of sharp sounds break across the clearing. Belial laughs, fist clenched and his head tilts to one side as he listens to the bones as he grinds them into dust.

"Now that…" Stiles looks pale, "That's not… that wasn't the plan…"

"You want the sacrifices dead so badly," Bael looks smug now, and that's almost worse than the anger. "So now you can watch them die." One hand rests on Stiles' shoulder, no matter how hard Stiles attempts to shrug it off.

Another bound human begins to scream as a fire starts up inside them. Lydia chokes on the smell of burnt flesh, watching as the person lights up like some sort of twisted glow lamp. Their skin crumples like burnt paper, and she hears their pained fill cries fill the air.

The final death is almost quick by comparison. Belial steps forwards, his yellow eyes flash and he slams his hand straight through the guy's rib cage. Lydia will never forget the way the guy whose name she doesn't even know goes still as Belial ripped out the heart. In one smooth move, he slams it down the Nemeton, and grabbing a knife, pins it like a butterfly before the cup and lance there.

The seven bodies lie sprawled around the tree trunk like some sort of twisted torturer's chambers. Belial steps back, looking reverently as the ground around the Nemeton shifts.

As Lydia watches, the bodies begin to decay. Skin begins to shrivel and dry, and though there are no maggots, not flies, the skin begins to discolour and fall away. The flesh vanishes, as if eaten by some invisible animal, while the harsh white of bone begins to show through.

“Oh god,” she chokes out.

“Not god, sweetheart,” Belial laughs, stepping away from the tree trunk and admiring the scene.

Everything about it is wrong, right from the blood splattering the scene to the twisted bodies, but it takes Lydia a while to realise that the angels screaming the other side of the crack are silent for the first time in hours.

And the ground shifts, just slightly, and in a single breath the soil surrounding the roots of the Nemeton begins to crumple down. The hole gapes wider and like a shark, it swallows the bodies whole, tugging them down into the depths of the tree’s roots. Lydia clenches her eyes closed, because they're too late. They've failed, they've failed and they're too late. The deaths bubble in the back of her throat, one two three four five six seven and the earth swallows them down down down.

Behind her Bael laughs in glee. She wants to scream, and he just encourages her. "Scream girl. Scream," he leans closer, "They say a banshee's screams can herald the damned."

His grin is triumphant.


	43. Make You Suffer

Luke watches as the ground shifts, swallowing the dead bodies that lie scattered around the tree trunk. Seven sacrifices for seven sins.

Jethro staggers back, clasping his head as if struck by a headache. The red-head girl behind him is screaming, clutching her boyfriend, the pair trapped by the red-eyed Bael's power.

And for a moment Luke flounders, unsure what to do. Dantalion is staring at the tree trunk with reverence in her gaze. It looks weird, seeing his own face with that expression, and Luke has to remind himself that it's not his face anymore.

Then again, this wasn't his face either. Jethro and Nate and Lexi all looked at him without recognition. They called him the demon's pet.

The demon was dead.

Or exorcised, but either way she was gone. Gone and Luke felt lighter than he had in weeks. As if some darkness had been broken up by light, and he could finally see clearly.

And he knew what he had to do.

 _'You sure?'_ the voice in his head whispers, but they're both thinking the same think.

Luke can stand here and watch his friends die. Luke can stand here helplessly and watch the demons tear the earth apart. They'll rip open this door, this cage, and unleash whatever fury waits within.

Or he can try and stop it. Even at the cost of his life.

It's not like Luke has much left to live for anyway at this point.

***

"Where's Abaddon!?"

"I don't know! You're the one who's meant to kill that bitch!"

Sam surfaces from the grey ash demons that are literally everywhere, stabs another and spins around to find his brother again. No sooner had the kids left than the trueform-demons had surged after the three wolves. Sam and Dean had moved to intercept, and somewhere along the way they had lost sight of the hell knight.

"Dammit," Dean kicks one of the creatures to the side, "This wasn't the plan!"

The bone handled knife is sweaty, but sure in his grip. At least, Sam thinks as his arm comes up to protect his face from swiping claws and he gets his arm torn for his effort, the creatures don't leave blood, only ash when they finally give up and decide to die.

There is a growl, and something tells him it's not the monsters littered around the forest. The very earth seems to be crying out, moaning and shifting beneath Sam's feet.

With a shriek all the demons take off in clouds of smoke and leathery wings, flocking up like birds clawing at Sam and Dean as they rush upwards as one giant mass. It's triumphant as they claw their way into the sky, and Dean ducks down, arms up for protection.

"What is that?" he asks, looking about. He can probably feel it just as acutely as Sam can, the heavy feel to the air and the crackle that usually onsets a storm, or lightning. "No…" he stares off into the distance where an orange light illuminates the sky, and it's not the sun setting.

Sam's breath catches at the sight of smoke in the air. There's a fire out there, burning through the woods. It might be near the Nemeton, but he can't tell. They'd been planning to get to the evil tree stump to rescue Lydia, not be waylaid first by angels, then by demons.

"The cage," he whispers, horror welling up inside him, "It's opening."

Dean sighs, rocking back on his heels and switching his angel blade to his other hand, "Well this is fucked up," he sighs, and Sam honestly can't think of a better response to that.

"Come on," he says instead, glancing around, but the demons are swarming above them like starlings, their attention on the opening cage, at least for the moment, "We should…"

"Uh uh…" Sam barely makes it three steps before he has to skid to a stop, arms flailing slightly. Dean moves to back him up, staring as the figure staggers into view, spitting blood.

The angel - and it's definitely an angel, smart suit and silver sword - glares at them, but there is triumph in their gaze. "You hear that--" It takes Sam seconds longer to recognise Remiel, buried under the thick blood congealing on her forehead. She's obviously run afoul of Malphas or Asmodeus, "That's our ticket to paradise. And it's your ticket to die."

"You're outnumbered," Sam pleads, "Remiel, don't…"

Dean snorts next to him, "Who are you kidding, she wants to fight, I'll fight…" he starts forwards.

"Dean, don't…" Sam can barely get the words out, but the angel is smirking, stalking forwards.

"Oh I'll fight," she grins, "But I'm not alone in this. You really think I'm the only one who wants you dead?" two more of her angel friends step from shadows, and Sam sighs, sheathing his demon-killing blade in favour of grabbing his own angel sword.

The sky rumbles above them and for a moment his brother looks put out as a trickle of rain begins to fall from above. "Sam?" he asks, as they begin an uneasy stand off with the angels.

"Yeah?" Sam asks.

"Why don't we own any umbrellas?"

Sam opens his mouth, closes it, and then opens it again, because if they are about to die then he doesn't want his last words to be some harsh varient of 'shut the fuck up Dean'. "They impede a quick draw," he says, finally, "They don't go with our badass image. That, and we keep losing them."

"You keep losing them. Remember I had that umbrella with a swordstick…"

"For God's sake, Dean, that was nine years ago. And I left in the body of a hydra that was trying to kill you. Don’t you think it’s time you let go of the incident and moved on with your life?”

Dean shrugs, "Might have come in useful at a time like this," he gestures to the angels. "Ready?" he asks.

"Always," Sam grimaces, and thinks that one of these days one of them is going to die permanently.

It's not going to be tonight though, as he spins his sword around and steps forwards.

***

"This is it!" Dantalion crows, smirking at Jethro, "After so long waiting, he's finally here! Now you can watch your precious world burn."

"It's your world too," Jethro spits out, lunging forwards. She dodges his left hand punch and catches his right, her grip unforgiving and she feels like she's about to crack his bones. His head is pounding as if he's at a club with the volume turned up beyond what it normally is. He can feel the energy, the light, saturating the air.

A sense of hopelessness wells within him, because they've failed. For all their talk about success, they've actually failed. It's his fault, partially. He is the reason the lance sits on the tree trunk, powering up the opening of the crack.

He has to do something, anything...

And so lacking knowledge of what else to do in this sort of situation, Jethro did the only thing he could think of.

He slaps his palm down over Dantalion's heart and released as big an energy wave as he can muster. He feels it pour through him, and he forces all of the energy out of his hand and into her.

She pulls away as if she's been stabbed, clutching at her stomach. She looks up to glare at him, but doubles over, crying out. She heaves out a gasp, and Jethro staggers backwards, weak and tired all of a sudden.

But it's totally worth it, he decides, watching as the demon who stole Luke's body begins to choke, great wracking coughs as she tries to expel the energy in her body.

"This isn't over," she gasps out, glaring at him, her eyes uncontrollably flittering between green and black and normal, human brown.

"I think it is, rather," Jethro grits out, and draws his little knife, lined with mountain ash and wolfsbane and stabs it into her chest.

She chokes, and lights up from the inside, eyes flashing. It's like there's a firework inside of her, and seconds later it dies as he pulls the blade out and steps back.

The demon, fallen angel, devil, whatever she was, falls to the ground, dead.

Jethro feels no triumph.

He sees only Luke's empty body staring back at him.

***

Stiles could no longer move even if he wanted to. It's something about the air maybe, or the way Lydia holds his hand tightly. Or maybe it's simply the demon that stands at his shoulder, gazing in wonder as the giant tree trunk begins to crack. The fracture spreads from where Belial stabbed the knife in, over the still beating heart of the final sacrifice. It creeps out bit by bit, straight down the middle. The wood peels back, layer by layer as the crack sinks in, deeper than the Nemeton, deeper than the soil beneath and straight down to something beyond Stiles' perception.

The lance and cup that sat there wobble and tip precariously into the abyss. One minute they're there and the next they're lost, and Stiles stupidly thinks that it's a bit of a waste.

They vanish and with a shudder, the crack grows bigger. Something around Stiles' heart twists, and he gasps for breath as something in his head screams in pain.

"Stiles," Lydia whispers, "I can hear them. It's so clear now…" she shakes her head, "What did you do? What did we do?"

Stiles shakes his head, "I did what I had to," he whispers back, swallowing. "I'm not sorry," he meets her gaze, "I had an opportunity and I took it," his gaze is so earnest, so Stiles, that Lydia can't help but nod. He searches her gaze, for any judgement there. "I did what I had to."

Even Stiles knows that those six words were the first step on the road to hell, paved with good intentions.

"I'm going to hell," Stiles whispers, so tired. He's not sorry he did it, but it doesn't mean he doesn't wish there hadn't been some other way. "I'm going to hell," he repeats, brokenly.

"We're all going to hell, Stiles," Lydia sighs. She leans into him, and it feels like if they hold each other close enough they can morph themselves together. She helps to balance him, and even as he uses her as an anchor, she's finding her own tether in him.

Stiles didn’t think it was possible, but he falls that little bit more in love with the banshee in his arms.

***

Luke watches his old body die.

It’s disconcerting. It’s downright eerie, watching his own face go slack and crumple, eye rolling up as Jethro steps back, triumphantly.

He’s dead. Or rather, she’s dead. The demon. Dantalion. She’s dead and it feels like some part of Luke died with him.

 _“That’s morbid. A bit creepy too,”_ Chandler whispers in his head. The guy gave up fighting Luke a long time ago. There’s a missing person filed for Chandler Brady that won’t ever be solved, and Luke isn’t sure when the voice in his head came to accept that. Probably around the same time he accepted the fact if he wanted his sanity, he was going to have to work for a demon.

His life was already in ruins. Both of theirs now, and Luke felt so, so guilty for dragging this guy down with him.

“You…” Jethro was staring at them, eyes flashing green. He’s frowning in the way that suggests he’s reading them, their aura, their thoughts, whatever it is he does, however he does it. And Luke can’t have that. He can’t have them know…

He can’t just stand by and watch as the world ends.

 _“The cup. The lance…_ ”

The ingredients for the spell are gone, fallen into that giant pit with the ground rushing in. Or maybe it’s rushing out. It’s hell down there, Luke thinks. Knows. Hell. Hell and hellfire and the Serpent and the Archangel and the end of the world.

_“We’re going to hell anyway…”_

He’s already moving, tearing his gaze away from his friend and to where the yellow-eyed monster stands with a curled lip, watching the proceedings. Behind him the ground caves in, sucked through the crack in the old oak trunk. The fissure grows larger and larger by the second.

“No!” the red-eyes - Bael - spots them and their destination.

Belial doesn’t notice until it’s too late. By then Luke has thrown himself forwards, tackling the demon forwards. They are two souls wrapped together with a delicate balance between living and not-living, they are human and werewolf and the demon’s not expecting them to crash into him.

And god, Luke doesn’t want to die.

But he doesn’t want to live like this either. He can’t. He’d expected ten blissful years before hell came for him, but he’d made his deal with the wrong demon. His ten years were already cashed in, his time was up.

“Don’t even try it, dog!” Belial’s hands grip cruelly into his arms, tugging them both back from the edge. Luke snarls, eyes flaring blue and the face that isn’t his contorting into a wolf-like morph. The world is rushing in his ears, but he still makes out the shout behind him.

Jethro knows. “LUKE!”

And Luke can’t turn, won’t turn. He’s always been a coward, he’s run from his friends, ran straight into the demon’s waiting arms…

So he doesn’t turn to look, just swipes claws across the demon in front of him, sending them stumbling, tripping, over-balancing…

They fall together, and Luke thinks at least he took one of the bastards down with him.

***

It’s Luke.

It’s Luke but it’s not. Jethro can’t understand it. It’s Luke, faint werewolf-y thoughts and shimmer of emotions and there’s another, something else, something strange and foreign and not-Luke.

But then he barely has time to think because the blue-eyed wolf, the werewolf’s pet, the werewolf that had been with Naamah, god, Jethro is so stupid why didn’t he see it sooner - the wolf in question throws himself forwards at the yellow-eyed Belial.

For a moment the demon catches him, snaps something, and it looks like he’s going to shove the wolf back to the ground. But then something changes, and Jethro can see how close they are to the gaping crack, to the hell mouth opening it’s jaws…

“LUKE!” he shouts, and he can see _feel_ the other soul react in the different body, but it’s still his friend, it’s still somehow inexplicably _Luke_.

That’s probably why the werewolf doesn’t turn. That’s probably why the soul there just twists free from the demon, sending them both slipping sideways. That’s probably why he lashes out, claws dragging dragging dragging the yellow-eyed fallen angel down with him.

And Jethro gets there, just as they vanish. They were they, seemingly balanced on the point of falling and then they were gone, sucked into hell, into the cage, into the void.

Luke never could accept help after all.

He’s barely had the chance to realise that his friend was there than his friend was gone, and Jethro pauses, staring down at the fissue and wondering what it would be like to fall in it…

Then the earth shudders, and like a mouse trap slamming closed, the tree trunk twists back together. He stumbles back from the force of it, falling down and away from the accursed nemeton. He shoves himself up, feeling soil under his fingers and meeting Stiles’ worried gaze, the human hugging Lydia to him as the pair struggle to remain upright, even while the earth tries to bring them down.

Something’s changed. He doesn’t know what, but something’s changed. Luke did something, his friend was there, and he did something, stopped it…

He can’t tell them, Jethro realises, blinking away tears he didn’t even know were there. He can’t tell Nate or Lexi.

Luke’s gone, and telling them what happened to him won’t bring him back.

***

Stiles doesn’t know what happened. One minute he was watching the end of the world. The next minute the blue-eyed werewolf throws himself forwards and he and Belial disappear into the fissure.

A force wave travels outwards from the tree trunk, the earth trembling as if in fear. Sacrifice, Stiles thinks. It’s the only word bouncing around in his head, the idea of sacrifice and the nemeton and druids and he doesn’t know exactly what it means, but he knows it’s important.

"No!" Bael screams from somewhere behind them. The demon’s face twists into anger and then quickly into fear, "No…" he breathes, glances to the side and spots his dead demon-mate. The red-eyed demon stumbles back, and for the first time he actually appears scared. He steps back again, and then with a snarl he whirls around, and between one blink and the next he's gone. He's fled, Stiles realises, run away. Exit demon stage left.

Suddenly Stiles can move, but he finds that's not a good thing when the earth shakes violently and he crashes to the ground.

"What's happening?" Lydia shouts, "What is it?"

Stiles has no idea. "They fell in," he points out, but he knows it's important, "Belial …" (Good riddance) "and the werewolf. Or rather he threw them in…" It was like two more sacrifices offered up.

But not to the cage.

To the tree.

The Nemeton had been planted there for a reason, as a lock or some sort of seal.

With a groaning shudder the earth stills suddenly and Stiles looks up. The crack is gone; the hole in the earth that extended so far into nothing it extended into something has vanished. Jethro staggers upwards, eyes suddenly clear hazel brown.

"It's stopped," he breathes, "It's…" he startles towards them as the forest flares with light around him.

Stiles wonders how he hadn't noticed before, but considering he'd been worrying about the evil tree stump caving into a hell cage containing two entities that could end the world, it's not surprising that he'd missed it. But while he was distracted the fucking forest seemed to decide to burn down in the interim.

The sky above rolls with thunder and Jethro stares up at it, confused. He blinks, and right on cue Stiles feels a raindrop on his cheek.

"Is that…?" Lydia blinks, "Is that it? Is it over?"

Stiles is about to answer when there is a creaking noise from above. He glances upwards, the world slowing down as he observes an overhanging branch, wood crackling with embers. Something sits on the branch, with black eyes and smoke like limbs, but Stiles can't see it clearly because then he's shoving Lydia out of the way, just as the branch creaks. With a crack it falls down, fire engulfing it and Stiles feels the heat sear his back. In a horrible mimicry of the way Lydia had pushed him and Scott away from a kerosene fire months earlier, he knocks her and Jethro back to the ground.

The branch crashes down, landing straight down where they had been standing, long limbs reaching out and coming to rest directly on top of the Nemeton.

***

Lydia watches as the Nemeton burns. She thinks they should probably be running about now, but there is something refreshing and purifying as the tree stump goes up in smoke. Stiles whines where he half lies on top of her, and she thinks it's maybe because Stiles and Allison and Scott are tied to the tree trunk, some mystical link that connects them to it. It must hurt them too, she thinks.

She opens her mouth to ask, but instead finds herself commenting on the scarf Stiles is wearing. "Why are you wearing a scarf? Isaac's scarf, as well," she recognises the fabric.

Stiles looks down at her, "I…" he shrugs, "My scars were hurting."

And it hits her then that Stiles is here, alive, and he's neither dead nor dying. She reaches up and pulls the scarf from his face.

"Castiel, Dean's angel friend, healed me," Stiles explains, looking mildly guilty. "Not entirely, but enough," he rubs at the line that curves up the left side of his face. Lydia grabs his hand, tossing the scarf away.

"I don't care," she whispers, "I don't care."

"I'm gonna have to buy Isaac a new scarf," Stiles stares at where the scarf is now burning merrily.

Lydia ignores him and drags Stiles down to kiss him, because he's alive, she's alive, and she never thought anything would scare her more than the thought of losing him. She is his anchor, but sometime between then and now, he's become hers too.

To the side Jethro rolls over, and then back to avoid flames nearby. "Uh guys?" he asks, "Really not the time…"

And Stiles pulls reluctantly off her, moving back. "Oh crap," he says, realising that everything is pretty much on fire. He stands suddenly, still cursing.

He helps to pull Lydia up and she peers around him to where the branch that landed on the Nemeton sparked off another fire, on dry wood, eons old. It's burning, fire rising up from it like a bonfire. The flames that engulf the trunk rises higher, and it's odd, because it looks like there is a fully grown tree engulfed, with spreading branches reaching towards the sky. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, it looks almost like the Nemeton had grown again into a fully grown oak tree.

Or maybe it's Lydia's eyes playing tricks on her.

Something shrieks and Jethro helps the pair up. "I don't think this is over yet," he half shouts to be heard above the roar of the blaze. "Some people are going to be pretty pissed."

Stiles is staring at something over her head, "You think?" he asks. "Lydia, don't look."

She turns anyway and upon seeing the demonic smoke bubbling into ethereal shapes, she wishes she hadn't.

***

There is bright light as one of the angels dies. Sam can't tell which one, because he's currently ducking away from one figure with an outstretched silver sword. Angrily the angel - blonde surfer dude - Elyon - slices his blade through the air and Sam leans backwards to avoid it. It passes by, too close for comfort.

"Where's your boss?" he taunts, lunging forwards. Elyon blocks and their blades clash together for a moment, before Sam steps backwards, breaking the hold. "And the demons…?"

"Why?" the angel snaps, angrily, "Who cares?" he waves his hands about impatiently, "The demons will be dead soon enough!"

"Sure about that?" Sam shouts back, and it's only then that he realises he's shouting over something, the low rumbling that echoes through the woods. His head spins, looking for the source.

He feels the earth shaking beneath him and in front of him the angel stares with horror into the distance.

Then something drops out of the sky like an angry bird, smoke form settling on ground between Sam and the angel. It snarls, baring its teeth that cinder with embers. It crouches for a moment, low to the ground, and then pounces.

Sam finds himself beset by claws and sharp, needle-like teeth. He lashes out, blade missing but throwing the creature from where it's jaws had attempted to tear out a chunk of his arm.

"Sam!" Dean shouts out from where he and Remiel still appear to be attempting to kill each other, "Duck!"

Sam barely has time to see what exactly he's meant to be ducking, but he obeys, dropping to the ground.

Something flies over his head about the same time something explodes in the nearby forest. Heat billows over him, making his rain soaked hair stick to his neck. He glances up, seeing smoke and ash and more of the snarling demon creatures. Beyond, the angel he had been fighting suddenly has new problems, and Sam sees it as the man appears from the direction of the fire.

His orange eyes dance with fire light, and his calm composure is broken into anger. "What did you do?" Malphas snarls, voice hoarse as he stalks towards them angrily. "You interfering good-for nothing…"

Something else explodes, and the rain trickles like ice down the back of Sam's neck as he stumbles backwards. The forest is burning, he realises vaguely, and, fuelled by the demon's wrath, it's spreading.

Like wildfire.

***

Something twists in Scott's gut and he chokes. Besides him Allison has her hand to her side as if she has a cramp. Isaac pulls up shortly, looking at them, "What is it?" he pants. His eyes flash gold, but Scott can't tell if it's the firelight or his wolf. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know." Scott feels weird. "Something… feels different…" he stumbles back into a run, because he needs to get to Stiles and Lydia. Like, he needs to get there now. Some unspoken urge drives him to move faster. His pack is in danger.

He erupts out into the Nemeton clearing which is at full blaze already. He skids to a halt as Stiles stumbles backwards, making for where a machete is buried in a tree trunk.

"Scott?" Stiles blinks at him, and his gaze slides over Scott's shoulder. The alpha spins around, and his jaw drops open in an 'oh crap' as he spots the smoke demons hurtling towards them.

His claws slide out, but an arrow takes the first one through the throat. Allison stands at the tree line as Isaac leaves her to bound forwards and join Scott.

Scott lets out a snarl and lashes upwards, grabbing one of the creatures out of thin air and crushing it's windpipe. He ducks under one towards where Stiles is. His friend has somehow reacquired his machete. "What happened?" he asks, because everything is burning and it's hard to tell. There are no more demons around though and that’s just about the only positive.

Lydia shakes her head, hands over her mouth to stop smoke inhalation as she limps towards Allison. Isaac bats a demon away from her. "They're screaming," the banshee whispers.

"Did it work?" Scott asks, checking Jethro is okay. The guy seems to be punching the smoke monsters with a green aura imbued fist, so Scott leaves him to it. "Did it work?"

"They're angry," Lydia whispers, mascara streaked down her face, "Both of them are so, so angry." she looks up. "It didn't work. The angels are still trapped, but that doesn't mean they aren't still trying."

"Let's get away from here!" Jethro shouts, "Before we end up deep fried."

"I like how you think," Stiles waves his machete about as if he knows how to use it and somehow ends up taking out three gargoyles with one errant sweep. Scott is mildly impressed. He's worried seconds later though when one of the grotesque demons drop onto his friend straight from above. Its face is smoke, but beneath it Scott thinks it looks almost like it had once been human, burnt away to nothing. Its hands are long and clawed fingers, and it is about the size of a large child.

For a moment Stiles vanishes beneath its weight and Scott darts forward to help his friend, but then the demon vanishes in a puff of ash. Stiles straightened, spinning out the machete with an elegance unbecoming of him. He spins it a little, as if it's a katana.

In fact, Scott never even knew could use a blade that well. He skids to a halt. "Stiles! Stiles! Are you okay?" he asks, claws catching another smoke monster around the throat, and putting up with the feeling of hot, sulphuric breath on his face for a few seconds, he quickly uses his other hand to rip open the throat.

Stiles laughs, shoving the werewolf away from him towards where Allison and Lydia stand. The fire lights up around them like a halo. "Don't be such a worry wolf!" Stiles jokes, grinning and spinning around back to the action.

Scott turns away. He spots Isaac ducking away from a burning branch. The fire is unnatural, but the alpha isn't sure if that's because of the rain that is doing its hardest to extinguish it, or the supernatural force that is behind it in the first place. In places the fire leaps high, reaching for the sky. Everything's on fire and the heat is stifling. There is no smoke though, Scott realises numbly. Everything is just burning.

It's not even dying, because the bark and trunks around him are not crumbling into ash and falling down around him. Instead the trees look healthy and well beneath the wall of flames.

Holy fire, he thinks, looking around from Jethro using a flaming branch to knock demonic smoke creatures left, right and centre to the giant oak tree with spreading branches in the clearing behind him.

Scott does a double take, spinning back around to the giant burning oak tree that used to be nothing more than a cut down tree trunk. Well that's new, he thinks, staring at the fully grown Nemeton. They should probably avoid using holy fire in the future too.

He is distracted suddenly by something leaping onto his back. He spins around, trying to claw it off. It sinks claws into his back and he growls, seconds before an arrow flies throw the air and the weight dislodges.

He turns to see Allison grinning as she loads another crossbow bolt, "Careful!" she shouts, but shoots another away from where it was bothering Jethro.

Scott grins back, but his grin fades as he sees a shape behind Allison. His mouth opens to shout out a warning, but before the words have even forming in his mouth the shape moves.

"Allison! Behind you!"

She's half turned when the demon behind her moves. Eyes slide down bone white and there is a blade in his hand, and then suddenly isn't.

Instead the blade has impaled itself into Allison's stomach.


	44. Silver Sorrow

Nate and Lexi skid into what seems to be the only patch of forest that isn't burning.  Not that the holy fire seems to be actually making any progress in doing anything other than purifying everything it touches, the orange flames practically harmless, if not extremely hot and scalding to the touch.

"God, no…" Lexi chokes out, and for a moment Nate can't see what's the problem. Apart from the smoke demons everywhere, one of which she takes a moment to claw it's throat out, the pack seem to be managing fine.

Except everything is not fine. Allison is on her knees, hand to her stomach where red seeps out. Even over the overwhelming scent of sulphur, Nate can smell the sharp tang of blood.

It doesn't smell or taste like rust or salt. It tastes like blood, red and hot and pouring out of the gaping wound in the huntress' stomach.

Lexi rushes forwards, but Scott is already there, cradling Allison to his chest. Nate's breath catches in her throat.

A shadow behind Allison moves back, and it's with a muted snarl that's surprisingly bestial for a human, Stiles gives chase. Isaac stands torn for a moment, before his eyes flash golden and he spins, heading off after Stiles with Lydia on his heels.

Nate jogs over to Scott, shouldering her way through the demons and ignoring the way the claws tear through her skin.

She'll heal. She's a werewolf, an alpha.

But Allison…

"It's okay…" Allison breathes out, "It's okay, Scott…"

"No… no no…" Scott shakes his head.

"Fuuck…" Jethro glances down and then spins away, trying to give the pair some time together by keeping the few remaining smoke creatures off their back. There are less and less, but they're still around, crawling out of the shadow and lunging, claws outstretched.

The fire burns brighter and they have less and less places to hide, but that doesn't stop them quite yet. Jethro punches one, and it lights up like it's eaten a firework, dying and vanishing into smoke.

"Allison, please…" Scott begs, and Nate suddenly can't stand it anymore. She sinks to her knees in front of the pair, grabbing the hand Allison has pressed over her wound.

"Don't…" Scott's eyes flash red with warning as Nate begins taking pain.

"I know what I'm doing," she snaps, "Okay? I'm not… I didn't want this. For me. For Lexi. For Jethro. For any of you guys."

"What are you doing?" Scott is confused and Nate just focusses on Allison's brown eyes that keep fluttering closed.

"Nate…" Lexi whispers from behind her, hesitant and cautious and for a moment Nate thinks about the repercussions of this. Then, "Do it," Lexi whispers, "Do it, damn it, save her!"

Nate grits her teeth and meet's Scott's gaze. He is shaking his head slowly, mouthing no, the exact moment Nate's grip tightens on Allison's hand.

The pain seeps up through her hand, and it's like dying, she thinks. It's worth it, she knows, it will be worth it, to just know that she's saved someone, that nobody else is going to die…

And so she takes that little bit more. Her veins run black and she snarls, shivering as something changes within her. Her veins run black and she's taking it away, taking it all away, and something in her dies a tiny bit as all her energy leaves her.

She sinks back down, tired all of a sudden, blinking up at where Allison is gasping, pushing Scott off as her hand claws at her unmarked side.

And when Nate looks up wearily at the alpha - her alpha now, she thinks - she knows her eyes spark with a beautiful pure gold.

***

Stiles knows going after the demon is a stupid idea. But then Isaac and Lydia take off after him and he doesn't feel so bad.

Because Allison is dead - dying (not dead yet) - and he has to do something…

It's night time, but the fire burns so bright it's almost day again. The shadows are almost non-existent in the woods, and the grotesque demonic forms have nowhere to hide.

One still tries to go for his throat, but Isaac is there suddenly, fangs out and his hand is deep within the body of the ember charred creature, clawing up and through.

The monster snarls and with a shudder it's body fades into smoke.

"Thanks," Stiles blinks at the beta who nods.

"Really, Stiles?" Asmodeus smirks from where he watches, lounging against a tree. The shadows swell and fade around him, like hound dogs to call, "Didn't anybody tell you going off into the woods by yourself… was a bad idea?"

"He's not alone!" Lydia glares at him, and she doesn't even have a weapon, apart from a flaming tree branch that Stiles thinks she may or may not have stolen off Jethro. "He's got us. His friends."

"Ah, yes," the demon's eyes are bone white. "Team Scream and PTSD Wolf. What a team!" he claps his hands together, laughing, but then his grin drops. "You may have foiled our plans, but this is where the fun times end," he punches out, and the smoke demons around him scream in excitement and pounce outwards.

Stiles spins his sword around - it's more of a machete really - and sweeps a stroke straight through the nearest creature, as if he was hitting with a baseball bat.

Nearby, he is vaguely aware that they've found the hunters again. He ducks and ends up rolling along the floor to avoid claws slashing down, and when he next blinks up it's to a bloody Castiel stalking towards a guy who is probably an angel.

The teen wonders what happened to Cas' trench coat, since the dude seemed to be just wearing his suit. He probably took it off to keep it clean. Bloodstains must be a pain to get out.

Isaac is suddenly crouching over him, offering a hand up, "Got a plan to get rid of this guy?" he asks.

Stiles takes in the sight of the Winchesters just up the hill. The pair are still both fighting. Sam is sprawled on the ground, his gun out and shooting at one of the demons with coloured eyes. Behind him Dean is in a sword battle with what looks like another pissed off angel.

"Stiles!" Isaac snaps him back to focus, but now Stiles knows exactly what they need to do.

He grins, "When do I not have a plan?"

***

Sam loses his sword when Malphas yanks it from his hand with telekinesis. He pulls out his gun and shoots that, trying to find his footing.

The demon doesn't even flinch as the bullets rip into his body, "Nu uh, Sammy," he sneers, and with a casual flick the gun flies out of Sam's hand too. "Try something with a little more whumph, maybe?"

"How about you try this for size?" someone shouts out and with a static flicker Sam and Dean's brother appears between Sam and Malphas.

The demon obviously recognises the figure before he glares, "You…"

Adam just smirks, "Me."

The demon tosses a hand out, but the ghost just grins wider.

"Sorry," he shrugs, as Sam finally manages to stand up, "But I'm dead so, y'know. But I'll show you what I can do…" and he steps forwards, spectral hand shooting out as he effectively punches Malphas in the chest.

But the demon freezes as the hand shoots through him. His face freezes mid-snarl, and his eyes flare bright, vivid orange. His body sparks from the inside, and for a moment Sam can see the host's skeleton, just before Adam pulls his hand back, a black smoke trapped within his clenched palm.

The body drops to the ground as Adam turns to Sam, smile hesitant now as he holds the writhing smoke of the fallen angel tightly. "This might knock me out for a good while," he says, "So just for the record, I don't blame you."

"Adam…" Sam mouths, staring at the brother he has barely begun to know. The words lie unsaid on his tongue.

His half-brother just smiles and shakes his head, "I know," he says, "Me too," and then he crushes the smoke in his hand with a flash.

***

"Hey! Idiot!"

Okay, so it's not Stiles' best plan.

But he's had a lot worse ones. Including looking for half a dead body in the woods a night.

Asmodeus just grits his teeth with exaggerated patience and turns to Stiles, "I'm going to rip out your tongue," he promises darkly, "And then I'm going to enjoy watching you choke on your own blood."

He steps forwards, and really that's all it takes. Stiles remembered the symbol from the hospital they'd scrawled out for Allison and Lexi, and in the chaos, nobody notices Stiles scrawling the pattern in the soil.

Not until it is too late.

Asmodeus comes up short.

"Falling for the same trick twice?" Stiles clicks his tongue, "That must hurt."

It is Lydia however who enacts the second part of the plan, stepping forwards to just outside the circle. Stiles is trusting her skill in archaic Latin here as she begins an exorcism.

It makes Stiles gut churn as the words come out, and he thinks he's going to be sick. It's probably the nerves, as the white-eyed demon snarls and hisses, lashing out in an attempt to break the trap.

He succeeds, but then Isaac is there, claws sinking into the demon's chest, slowing him down just enough for Lydia to finish reciting.

Abyssus abyssum invocat.

Deep calls unto the deep.

Or alternatively, hell brings forth hell.

With a cry the man's head snaps back and black smoke spews out, soaring upwards before some unseen force tugs it down down down into the earth.

Straight through the still burning holy fire.

The smoke writhes, as if in pain. Lydia winces, and Stiles is willing to bet she can hear the fallen angel scream as it is yanked through the fire before vanishing. If there is anything left on the other end, he doubts it's enough to cause harm for another century or so.

Isaac tugs his claws out of a dead body with a disgusted expression. He wipes off the blood on the still form, before stepping backwards, and looking around. His hair is plastered with ash and blood and smoke and rain and… huh.

Stiles hadn't even noticed it was raining until now.

He spreads out his hands, feeling the refreshing water pour down onto him. The last of the holy fire burning everywhere flickers and begins to die, finally relinquishing it's hold now that the last demon was gone.

There was a blur of red and for a moment Stiles ducks away from the fire, before realising it's Lydia's hair as she throws her hands around his neck. Isaac looks put out as Stiles holds her close, hearing her racing heart.

"I haven't screamed," she whispers in Stiles' ears, just before he hears the pounding footsteps.

One of the few remaining shadow demons rears up, only to be kicked in the face by Lexi as she slides into view. A flash of claws and the demon is gone as she grins at them. "Everyone okay?"

"Stiles!" Scott calls as he runs up with Nate.

Allison is behind him, and for a moment Stiles stares in wonder at his first love's best friend and his best friend's first love. "Weren't you dead?" he asks, stupidly. For someone who had been near dying earlier, she looks remarkably well

Allison just smirks, "I got better," and, well, he's going to have to give her that one.

He spots Nate with gold eyes flashing, "Explain later," he says, flinching as a demon smoke form materialises right in front of him. He flails, and one of his limbs lashes out in a punch straight through the smoky form. It's hot, scalding almost, but the creature stills and with a growl Stiles yanks his hand back out.

The creature fades into nothing. Scott gapes at him and Stiles just smirks. Scott isn't the only one with fancy tricks.

***

Adam is gone, when Sam can finally blink the bright spot from his vision. Then he's almost blinded again when Dean's angel blade finally finds its way through Remiel's chest.

His brother staggers over, pausing to grab Sam's gun and frown at it with a confused expression on his face. "My gun misfired," Sam says.

Dean snorts. "Excuses," he mumbles.

"Shut up, Dean." Sam grabs his gun back from his brother and moments later is grateful to have it in his hands when a smoke demon materialises right in front of him and he can simply raise his gun and shoot it back into oblivion.

His gun clicks empty.

"Sam!" Dean mock-tosses his brother the knife, and some bitch actually jumps to try and catch something that wasn't flying.

Instead he drops the knife and kicks it. Sam drops to the ground and caught the knife, standing and in one fluid movement guts the demon mid-air.

"Thanks," Sam spins around. The smoke creatures are mostly-dead, and he can see the teenagers several feet away. Of course every time he thinks he's killed the last of the true-form demons hanging about, another one materialises from nothing.

Dean sprints away a little bit, relaxing slightly when he spots Castiel. The angel Sam had been fighting - Elyon - gets in Dean's way, but he makes no effort to fight.

"We're leaving," he says, hands up.

"I don't care," Dean says, and stabs the angel through the throat.

The light is blinding enough to force what Sam hopes are the last few true-form demons to flee. It also distracts Kamael and Castiel, just enough for Castiel to finally slide his sword across Kamael's gut.

Grace spills out, and the angel gasps, clutching his chest. He mouths words that Sam can't hear or see, because he's turned away as the grace explodes.

When the body falls to the ground there aren't even wing prints beneath it.

***

"Is that it?" Jethro asks, hopefully, "Is it over?"

Allison who seemed to be running on adrenaline, collapses at this point in Isaac's arms. She's grinning and staring gratefully at where Nate and Lexi stand.

"Thank you," she says again. Nate looks embarrassed.

The last few of the demons fade into smoke as the holy fire finally extinguishes, the screeches dying in the air. "We're alive," Scott breathes in surprise, "We're alive." he lets out a laugh of joy. He spins around and focusses on where Nate and Jethro stand. "Stay," he breathes, "If you don't have to go anywhere, stay. Join my pack."

Nate looks flustered and still embarrassed. "We should be getting back to England."

"No," Jethro shakes his head, "Nate, what's for us there now?"

"I want to stay," Lexi decides, and this, Scott realises, is probably why she gave up her alpha status. Her pack never listened to her anyway. "Can we stay?"

Nate looks up to where Scott is nodding.

"Please," Allison says from where she sits with Isaac on the floor, "Please, stay? I need someone to help me pass Math this year and Lydia gets frustrated when I don't get it."

The blonde laughs, and nods, "Okay," she says, "Okay then…"

Scott grins. He wants to hug someone, elated and thrilled. He spots the hunters, and they're being all professional, checking for wounds. He should probably do that. Everyone is clawed up from the shadow demons, no one is burnt thankfully, and the werewolves are mostly healed. Jethro is too for that matter.

Scott spots Stiles and Lydia in the distance. He's not sure if it's their proximity he notices first or the soft smile on Lydia's lips as Stiles talks.

"Do you think Stiles and Lydia are dating?" he asks Allison next to him.

"No," she shakes her head with a frown, craning to see where the pair are, "It was just a rumour," she explains, but her tone is distant as she watches them for a moment, seeing the same thing Scott sees. "No," she says again, but there is less conviction in her voice as she eyes the duo. "No," now there is disbelief as Lydia threads her fingers through one of Stiles' hands to stop the flailing. The pair are gazing at each other with such intensity, still talking quietly, but it's like they're on fire.

Like they're a spark of light.

"Oh my--" Allison breathes, wide-eyed. "I didn't know. I didn't - I can't believe she didn't tell me!"

Isaac face palms, "Nobody listens to me," he murmurs with a sigh, "They've been dating for months, guys."

“That’s it,” Allison sighs, “We’re selling you to Peter,” she tells Isaac, “And we’re not even asking what he’ll do with you.”

“We’re not selling Isaac to Peter,” Scott chides, and for a moment the beta looks grateful, “We’ll gift wrap him as a birthday present. When is Peter’s birthday? God, how old is Peter anyway? Wait… Stiles and Lydia have been dating for how long? Why the hell didn’t anybody tell me? Stiles… "

"Stiles what?" the guy himself is wandering over with Lydia next to him. He high fives Jethro and grins at Scott, "Well, go on."

"Stiles is my best friend," Scott finishes, with a weak shrug, "You need to tell me when you finally score the girl of your dreams, dude."

Stiles looks flustered, and Lydia looks smug. He changes the subject, "So is this the moment we all have a pack puppy pile?" he asks eagerly.

"Werewolves don't do puppy piles," Scott says, seriously.

Stiles ignores him and crashes into his friend with open arms anyway.


	45. Last Warning

They don't really make it out of the woods that night. The whole place is soaking wet, but it feels fresh and new. Purified, as Jethro had commented happily, closing his eyes and promptly falling asleep much to Lexi's envy. That guy could fall asleep anywhere.

Isaac somehow cajoled one of the hunters out of matches and food, and now was sitting with Allison in front of a campfire. Scott and Lexi were currently debating over whether or not it would hurt to toast marshmallows on their claws.

Sam attempted to be at least some sort of responsible adult and found a first aid kit, but Scott, learning from watching his mom so many times and Allison, who actually knew first aid, were the ones who saw to Stiles and Lydia who were the only two without supernatural healing powers. Allison would have seen to her own cuts but she'd been healed of everything with Nate's alpha spark, so she spent the majority of the night trying to thank the other girl, who eventually used Lexi as some sort of human barrier to hide from the huntress.

There were some bruises and scars that would not fade with healing, Scott knows. He can see it in the tired eyes around him, in the scar across Stiles' jaw and neck, in the jumpy manner of Lydia now, and the sadness behind Nate and Lexi's smiles.

But he knows that things will get better.

So for now, he's prepared to see things through to the end.

***

It's not like in the movies. Between the end and the conclusions, there is the awkward in between stage. In real life you can't cut scene and then start afresh days later when all the characters look healthier, happier and already past the events that happened.

It's probably why the pack spend the first night, the same night as the battle, just camped out in the woods. They head back to Stiles' jeep and for the most part just find somewhere to curl up around the crudely constructed campfire. At intermittent intervals a few of them would vanish to deal with the various dead bodies of the angel or demon hosts, but for the most part they talked about everything except demons, deaths and destruction.

Nate keeps as close to Lexi as possible, unwilling to let her sister out of her sight. Jethro doesn't stray too far either, although whether that's because he enjoys the companionship or is sprawled out unconscious from energy manipulation remains to be seen.

The hunters stay with them at a distance, along with their angel, but Nate hears two of them - Dean and that angel of his - vanish at some point during the night. She's not complaining through when they come back with breakfast and coffee.

After that Scott and Isaac head off on Scott's bike, while the hunters give lifts to Lydia and Allison. Nate, Jethro and Lexi get a lift in Stiles' jeep back to the loft, where everyone is going to meet up once they'd slept and done other various body functions.

The loft is empty when they get back to it, and not that Nate had expected anything else, but it is a bit disconcerting to not have a pack member sprawled on the sofa or be staring at the evidence board.

But it is comfortable and familiar and just maybe, it feels a little bit like home.

She feels a pang of homesickness suddenly hit her, staring around at the empty room.

Nate just wants to go home.

The problem is - she doesn't know where home is anymore.

Her eyes burn golden and her pack is dead. That sounds just about right, and for the first time in months she feels right. She's a survivor, her and Lexi and Jethro. And now she has no responsibility beyond that which she chooses.

Giving up her alpha powers in hindsight was the easiest thing she's ever done, and she doesn't regret it. It makes her feel good - she saved a life, and she wants to do that again. She wants to study, go to school, go to university, be a doctor or nurse, help people.

And this… they can do this, she thinks. This pack, this town.

There's nothing for her back in England.

This is her pack now.

And just like that she feels better, feels relaxed and finds herself smiling. They may have to relocate when the mysterious 'Derek Hale' gets back in town; they may not, especially considering Stiles' fondness for their 'pack den' as he calls it.

"You okay?" Jethro asks, coming out of the kitchen, his mouth stuffed with food. He freezes, and then chews a bit more, swallowing with a gulp, "Nate?"

She looks around to him, her best friend, her idiotic stupid brave best friend who turned out to be a coatl. "Yes," she nods, "Yes, I think we will be."

***

“You’re taking time off work, right?”

“Stiles, there are repairs going on everywhere because of that earthquake. That’s the second bad quake we’ve had in less than six months. And Scott’s dad’s been poking his nose around the school, I need to be out there, doing my job.”

Stiles glances at the floor, chewing on is lip, “I just… I don’t want you overworking yourself. I… I was scared that…” that I was going to lose you, Stiles couldn’t say, couldn’t add on the end…

A pair of arms wrap around him, “Oh son,” the Sheriff sighs, pulling Stiles to him, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Does this mean you forgive me for drugging you?” the teenagers asks hesitantly into his dad’s shirt, breathing in the aftershave and relaxing slightly. It’s over, he thinks, they’re all okay. They’re all _alive._

His dad laughs, shoulders shaking, “I forgive you,” he says, “Just don’t get any ideas for the future.” The two Stilinski’s break apart and Stiles busies himself with grabbing his phone and keys so his dad won’t see the tears sliding down his face from pure relief. “Oh, and you are not keeping the dog."

Stiles pauses, keys half-way stuffed in his pocket. He turns around to see his dad cradling his mug of coffee and starting a staring contest with the blue-eyed collie dog that sits, head mournfully on the floor.

"But dad…"

"No," the Sheriff puts his foot down, quite literally stamping at the ground. To be honest, Stiles is just relieved that his dad is back to normal. He shuffles guiltily on his way out to meet up with the pack after finding clothes that didn't smell of smoke or blood, and stepping into the shower for some time.

"Can I keep Lydia?" he tries instead. Delta pricks up her ears and her tail wags from side to side slowly. Stiles wonders if Prada could use a playmate.

The Sheriff sighs, "Stiles…" he looks like he's about to begin some long winded explanation, "Lydia?" he asks instead, eyes squinting, "Why would you want to keep Lydia?"

"Well, we're kind of dating." Stiles waves his hands about, "I can go get her and re-introduce her to you… have you ever officially met…"

"Son, no." The Sheriff sighs, "You don't need to introduce Lydia to me. Not unless you want me to introduce you to Melissa?"

"And, that's my cue to leave…" Stiles grabs the dog, tugging her backwards. She follows him obediently and Stiles trips his way out of the door. "See you later!"

***

Chris Argent wakes with a groan, rubbing at his head. Allison wants to smile brightly at him, but she can’t quite manage that. Instead she sits back, “Hi Dad. How are you feeling?”

Her father freezes instantly, and she watches as awareness floods into his gaze, then horror, then sorrow. He turns to look at her, and she doesn’t flinch.

She’s an Argent. She holds up her chin and meets his gaze until he drops his own, looking away guiltily. “Allison…” he begins.

“It’s okay,” she says, “Everything’s going to be okay now.” Her eyes flit to the hallway, and she meets Isaac’s gaze. The wolf nods, heading for the door, leaving her to let her dad sweep her up into a hug.

“I’m sorry,” he says, even though he doesn’t need to, “Allison, I’m sorry…”

“I love you too,” she whispers to him, and then says it, even though she doesn’t need to, “I’m not going to leave you.”

***

“Why are you looking so cheerful?” Stiles narrows his gaze suspiciously at Isaac. The guy keeps shooting Allison puppy-eyes, and when he’s not doing that, he’s grinning like he has something planned. “It’s really off-putting,” Stiles adds, enjoying the way Isaac gets this disgruntled look on his face.

He doesn’t answer, instead frowning, “What happened to my scarf?” he gestures at Stiles’ cheek, “If you lost it…”

There is a flail in which Stiles paws at his cheek, trying to remember what happened to it. It probably burnt, he thought, except the magical holy fire didn’t really burn anything, which meant he could probably rescue it from the forest and get it back to Isaac without the werewolf being any wiser, “At home,” he lied, grinning, then the grin fell from his face, “Oh god, how am I going to explain this to people? I’m going to have to say I fell down the stairs, or crashed my jeep… or, hey, I know! I was in the car with tall, scary hunter when he crashed the car!”

“Nobody’s going to ask questions,” Isaac frowns at him, “Nobody is going to care!”

“Dude, it looks like someone tried to open my face up with a razor and like I got knifed in my shoulder by a mugger. What are the guys on the team gonna’ think? They’ll think I’m doing drugs!”

Isaac shrugs. “It’s not like you walk around the locker room flaunting your stuff or anything. You usually, like, hide in your locker when you change.”

Affronted, Stiles protests. “I do not hide in my locker!”

“You do. You’re like a contortionist. You practically curl up inside the locker so no one can see you with your shirt off.”

“Hi!” Scott bounces up, and he’s looking just as happy as Isaac.

Stiles casts a suspicious glance between them, “I know Dean got laid,” he shares with them, observing their faces with glee, “But you two as well?”

“No!” Scott shakes his head, frowning, but worryingly Isaac shoots Allison a dreamy look. Stiles doesn’t even want to go there. “But guess what?” Scott’s like a happy puppy.

“What?”

“Mom let me move back in! And Isaac,” he adds as an afterthought.

Stiles allows himself a breath of relief. Maybe it really isn’t too much to hope that things are going to get back to normal.

Well -  as normal as Beacon Hills is ever going to get.

***

Everyone arrives at the loft in dribs and drabs. The hunters turn up too, hands stuffed awkwardly in pockets.

"You kids are doing a good job with this town," Sam says to Scott.

"Was that a compliment?" Scott grins, "I thought we were meddling kids…"

"Meddling werewolves," Sam corrects, "We underestimated you. You're doing a good job here."

Scott shrugs, "We were out of our depth," he says, "Thanks for the help. Seriously. We're sorry we kind of messed stuff up."

"Are you leaving?" Lydia asks.

Sam nods, "Once Dean gets his car fixed up," he responds, "We'll be on our way. We have stuff to do. Demons to track down. We’re going to have a go at hunting down the ones that got away."

Lydia nods, turning away and moving towards where Nate and Allison are talking. Dean grumbles at Sam, "We could be out of town by this morning if you hadn't wrecked my car."

"The car wasn't my fault," Sam sighs, "The demon…"

"Oh yeah," Dean gripes, "Blame it on the demon. I'm driving my baby back to the bunker and I'm never letting you behind the wheel again."

"Dean actually thinks you're a really careful driver," Cas appears from nowhere. Even without wings, he still manages to do that. Sam jumps, startled.

"He does?" Sam gapes, wondering when the hell Dean would admit something like that.

Dean splutters. "Careful driving is not necessarily a good thing! And he hit a dog! I take it back!" He pauses, with a frown on his face, "When the hell did I say that anyway?"

"You like to talk after sex." Castiel answers studiously.

Sam's almost chokes on the Pepsi Allison had given him, which in Dean's opinion is totally deserved. Who drinks Pepsi anyway?

Castiel just looks stoic and is his usual calm self, ignoring Sam's disbelieving stare between the two of them. "Was that a joke?" the younger Winchester asks, spotting Dean's satisfied smirk. "Guys, that was a joke, right? _Right_?"

Dean's laugh follows him as he strides off to talk to one of the teenagers lounging about nearby.

Now Sam thinks about it, both Dean and Castiel had been suspiciously absent after the battle.

The old man might be dead, but Sam still owes Bobby fifty bucks.

***

"So Adam is gone?" Dean asks, once Sam has stopped choking on his drink.

His younger brother nods, "At least for now. He's stuck in the veil, just like all the other ghosts out there."

"Just another reason to fix Heaven up," Dean says grimly, "But at least we can finally bin this," he waves the EMF metre around.

As if in response the machine whines. Dean and Sam just sigh, and look around.

Stiles' dog barks and the machine blips.

"Are you going to tell him," Sam asks with a puzzled expression on his face, "Or shall I?"

"I've got this," Dean strolls over to where Stiles sits perched on the edge of the table, piling all their torn down evidence and crime scene photos into a folder with Lexi and Scott.

"Stiles?" Dean asks, and the kid looks up. "We… we're kind of sorry to tell you this uh… Stiles… but your dog is dead."

"She's not my dog," Stiles mumbles, and then pauses, and double-takes. "Wait, what?"

"Dead?" Scott repeats.

"Are you…" Stiles leans over to where his dog sits, running one hand over Delta's head and a warm tongue comes out and licks his hands. "Are you certain?"

"Dead certain," Dean grins, not even wincing when Sam elbows him for the pun.

Sam crouches down and he flicks something white at the dog. Her whole form flickers and for a moment Stiles' hand rests on nothing.

"What the hell?" he jerks back and Delta stares beseechingly at him with her pale blue eyes. "My dog's a ghost." She woofs quietly at him and then trots over to Sam. He strokes her and her tail wags. "My dog's a ghost," Stiles repeats, dazed. "Oh my god."

"I'm pretty sure God had nothing to do with the death of your dog," Castiel sounds offended.

The dog whines and stands, trotting over to stick her nose at Cas' trench coat.

The angel looks surprised, but pats the dog.

"Great," Stiles sighs, "So not only do I have to get rid of the dog, but I have to get rid of a ghost dog. Who we gonna call?"

"I don’t think the Ghostbusters would be any help,” Cas frowns, “Although you could try the animal compound.” The angel looks up, and Dean gets a bad feeling as Cas turns his blue eyes towards the brothers. "Or we could keep her?" he turns it into a question, just as the dog - Delta - seemingly able to understand him, rolls over for Sam to pet her stomach.

"No," Dean shakes his head firmly.

"Come on Dean!" Sam jumps on the angels bandwagon, "She'd make a good guard dog."

"I said no! No dogs on my car!"

"But Dean," Castiel states, "Just think of all the advantages a supernatural dog would give you."

"Well for one," Dean is arguing, "It's a ghost. What's to say one day it doesn't finally snap and go rabid vengeful ghost hound on us?"

"Animals are simpler than humans," Sam is emphatic, "Haven't you heard the stories of dog ghosts that guide people through labyrinths?"

"Yeah, and I've also heard tales of horses that lead travellers straight into swamps."

"Those are will o' the wisp, Dean," the younger brother sounds exasperated. "But my point is animals are simpler than humans. They don't get stuck up on the details they just _are_."

"Plus," Stiles grins winningly, as if he hopes he can get rid of the accursed dog onto them, "She's dead. So you don't need to feed her, she doesn't poop, need walks…"

"Stiles," Scott looks scandalised, "Did you seriously not notice she wasn't eating anything?"

Stiles looks guiltily, "Well there is a reason my dad won't let me have pets," he scratches the back of his head sheepishly, "Since the boa I had as a kid died, and I'm pretty sure I never actually got around to stocking up on dog food and…"

"And this is why Allison looked after Prada," Scott sighs.

"So…" Dean looks at Cas' hopeful expression and just sighs.

"It's either this or a guinea pig," Sam says, "And she's easier."

Dean doesn't even want to know where the guinea pig idea came from.

***

Before the brothers set off, Dean pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket and moves forwards. Scott is expecting a phone number or something, not for Dean to slide it across the table to where Jethro has discovered a homework essay due in for when school restarts on Monday and is frantically trying to plan it out.

Jethro looks up, and picks up the piece of paper. He squints at it for a moment before a wide grin breaks out on his face. "Is this…?" Scott frowns in confusion and leans over to see what is written there.

He snorts with laughter at what he sees there, "Uh… Stiles…"

His best friend glances up, spots Jethro's gleeful face and pauses, expecting trouble. "What?" he says, hesitantly.

"I know your real name!" Jethro blurts out, before turning to Dean, "Oh my god, dude, thanks! Just uh…" he frowns at the paper, squinting slightly to see what is written there. "How do you pronounce it?" Dean has already turned away when he whines, "This isn't a name! This is what happens when someone sneezes letters onto paper! How do you even say it? Msc--Shchnn--" He gives up and tosses the paper down. Lydia picks it up. "You guys suck." he complains, "You so tricked me."

"Is anyone going to tell him that is actually your real name?" Lydia whispers in Stiles' ear, folding the piece of paper up and giving it to Stiles.

"We were planning on letting him suffer," he whispers back with a grin. "Hey, wait, guys! I need to know…" Stiles skips forwards to Sam and Dean. "Are vampires a thing?"

A few minutes later he walks confidently back to Scott and Lydia. "Apparently vampires are real," Stiles grins, "Who knew? Derek is going to be pissed."

"They're mostly extinct." Sam says from behind him, "Making a comeback through."

"Mostly extinct…" Stiles jabs a finger in the air, "Is not yet extinct. Which means they exist!" he seemed happy about that.

There's a strange sense of non-urgency in the air that makes Scott almost uncomfortable. For the first time in months they have no demons to chase, no murders to investigate.

"This is kind of nice," Allison comments. "Why can't everything just be like this all the time?"

"Because then it would be boring," Isaac elbows her, as he finally finishes programming their numbers into Dean's phone and passes it back. "Keep in touch." he says, and the pair turn, Castiel already at the door way with the ghost dog Stiles had attempted to adopt.

"Drop in some time!" Stiles yells to the hunters.

"Oh we will!" Sam promises, "We'll spread the word to other hunters too. Beacon Hills is off limits. Pack guarded. We'll tell them."

"Thank you!" Lydia actually waves at them, and then looks around, composing herself.

"Don't get yourself kidnapped!" Sam shouts to her.

"Please," she laughs, "I've got these idiots to look after me," she grabs Stiles’ hand, hanging onto his arm as he leans into her warmth.

Scott follows them to the where their car is parked outside.

"Seriously," Sam says, "If you need anything, just give us a call. We're kind of busy, but we'll try to help."

"We know," Scott says, "Thank you for not shooting us."

"You're teenagers," Dean looks aghast, "We don't shoot teenagers."

Scott doesn't know how seriously to take the hunter, and he thinks that at least Derek isn't here (and Peter scarpered). "Have a safe journey," he says, stepping backwards into a warm body. He glances over his shoulder to see Nate there, watching the hunters go.

"They're not bad," she hums, "For hunters."

Scott watches them bickering as the angel just climbs into the backseat quietly. The doors slam and the engine revs. "No, they're not. Just good people that a lot of bad stuff has happened to." He glances at Nate and then up towards the stairs where there is a loud crash and an exclamation of 'Jethro!'. "We all are," he adds, “Although we should probably go and check nothing is broken.”

"With Stiles and Jethro up there?" Nate grins, "Good luck."

Scott laughs, "Let's go home."

And his new beta just grins, eyes sparkling gold in the sun. "I like the sound of that. Home. Yes, let's go home."

And they turn up towards the stairs where their pack's laughter drifts down towards them.


End file.
